Ill
by BenteSeo
Summary: '"What's happening to me?" asked Harry, perhaps for the sixth time that day.' When Harry catches a strange illness, everyone seemes at a loss. And what does Malfoy have to do with this? Does he know something the others don't? - Drarry, Ron/Hermione, Eight Year, AU, Creature Fic, will be M- rated
1. Chapter 1 and 2

**An: Not mine. Not my characters. All belongs to JK Rowling**

**Chapter One**  
**The beginning**

* * *

For the second time that day Harry Potter found himself distracted. Horribly distracted. It wasn't that he'd usually pay much attention in class, but today was the worst.

His distraction came to light the second time Hermione had asked him if he was okay. He had wanted to reply with a generic 'fine', but then his brain actually kicked in. Did he feel fine? He did, didn't he? Did he?

Now that he was truly thinking about it, he did not feel fine. In fact, the more he focussed on it, the worse it got. This nausea, queasiness…

"No…" he answered slowly, "No, I don't think so. Maybe I'm getting ill?"

Hermione seemed, for once, to have forgotten class, and looked at her friend worriedly. "You do look quite pale, Harry. Do you need to go to the hospital wing?"

Harry didn't think so, but as the nausea got worse, he had to swallow down the bile that was starting to rise in his throat. "Yes," he replied quickly and then bolted from class, without looking back. He hadn't asked McGonagall if he could go, and he hoped Hermione would take care of it. She probably would.

Once he was out of the stifling class, he breathed a bit easier, and the nausea lessened. But instead of nauseous feeling, he now felt a strange hollowness. Something was missing, he knew that much. It was an unconscious feeling, something that came from the depths of him mind, but he knew it was true. An empty space in his mind, that had to be filled. Harry didn't really know what that meant, though.

It was then that he remembered he had promised to go to Madam Pomfrey, so he started climbing the stairs to the wing.

By the time he got there he was decidedly out of breath and he was sweating profusely. _Definitely not good_, he thought. Quidditch had presented him with a healthy amount of muscle and quite a bit of stamina, but his body all but seemed to have forgotten that.

When he walked into the hospital wing, he was relieved to see it empty. It would do no good for people to see him like this. Rumours were a thing easily spread in this school.

Having heard someone come in, Madam Pomfrey came bustling out of her office. Then her worried expression morphed into one of exasperation. "Mr Potter, I thought you'd make a new record. Two weeks and three days. Just one day more and that would be longest time to never see you!"

Harry managed a smile, but perhaps it came out more like a grimace. At this, the nurse quickly became professional again.

"Dear Boy, what's up with you?" She asked, as she drew closer to him, seemingly wanting to examine him from all angles. "You are positively grey!"

Harry had steadily been feeling worse and worse, and his knees took that moment to give out. He collapsed awkwardly on the hard floor, letting out a small cry when his back hit the floor, hard.

"Oh!" Pomfrey quickly walked over to him, and with some effort, picked him up, and put him down on one of the hospital beds. Then she immediately became throwing spells over him, assessing his health.

"Mr Potter, what happened? What got you in such a state?" She asked, her tone quite a deal softer than normal, for which Harry was grateful, since his ears were ringing.

"I don't know," he said quietly. "Felt fine this morning, then I got-" he coughed and Pomfrey seemed grow even more worried, "got this extreme nausea in class. That's when I decided to come here. Going up the stairs didn't really work out fine either," he finished lamely.

Pomfrey ran another spell over him, but didn't seem satisfied by the results. "I don't know what's up with you, Potter. The scan shows a light case of the flu, but that shouldn't have such an effect on you as this."

Harry nodded, but his head didn't seem to like that, and he got into another coughing fit. This time he saw some deep red spatters appear on his white linen sheets. Pomfrey seemed to notice as well.

"That's it. I'm getting the Headmistress."

Harry wanted to protest and say that wasn't necessary, but his vision began swimming, and it wasn't long before he passed out.

* * *

He woke to some quiet murmuring close to his bed, and tried to open his eyes to tell Ron and Neville to fuck off, but he found his eyes were glued shut. At least, it seemed that way. His head was pounding and he couldn't breathe easily. The nausea was definitely back, and so was the need to cough.

Then he noticed this wasn't his bed in Gryffindor Tower. It was much too sturdy to be, and smelled to much like… hospital. All the memories came rushing back then, and he realised the voices next to him were those of Madam Pomfrey and Horace Slughorn. Harry felt very uncomfortable.

Still, the Slytherin part in Harry chose that time to act up, so he kept his eyes closed, pretending to still be asleep. Next, he zeroed in on the voices, trying to make sense of what they were saying.

"-unusual, not quite sure what it is," said the pompous voice belonging to Slughorn.

"Well, something needs to be done. We can't just let him lie here, and see him fade away."

"It's already started. I don't know what to do, you don't know what to do, Minerva doesn't know what to do…" Harry started a bit at this, "What else can we do?"

"I don't know! Just make some potion or something that will make him better!"

"Easier said than done."

"We need to at least get his friends up here. They must be worried like no tomorrow."

Footsteps announced that his eavesdropping was over, as the nurse and potion master moved away. Pomfrey to go find Ron and Hermione, and Slughorn to… Yeah, what?

Just what the bloody hell was actually going on here? This morning he had felt fine, and now… this. And what was 'this'? For all he knew, he had the flu. But a flu didn't make one pass out or cough up blood. Did it?

Pomfrey had said something about fading away… Was that what was happening to him? Now that he had done what the world had wanted him to; destroy Voldemort, was he simply of no more use, was his time over? Surely not.

No. That was not it, Harry was sure. But then what had caused this? No one seemed to know. Not even McGonagall or Slughorn… Now that was a worrying thought.

He was shaken from his musings as the doors of the wing opened once more, and this time he heard three sets of footsteps. He was still feigning sleep, deciding that would be best for now.

He was sure one of the steps belonged to Hermione, and, opening his eyes just a fraction, he was proven right. A worried Hermione was making her way over to him, and next to her a pale Ron. Harry closed his eyes again.

"He is still unconscious," said the nurse from behind them, her voice full of sympathy. _For whom_, Harry wondered. Him, or his friends that had to see him like this?

Hermione took his hand, and it took all of Harry's willpower to not react, or give a squeeze. Unconscious people didn't squeeze other people's hands.

"Oh, Harry," she sighed.

Ron was now standing on the other side of the bed, opposite from Hermione. Fortunately, he didn't take Harry's hand, and Harry was just the slightest bit grateful for that.

"What's wrong with him?" asked Ron. He sounded concerned, and just a bit fearful.

"As I told you when I came to get you, we don't know. Professor Slughorn and Headmistress McGonagall are working on a cure as we speak," she tried to say reassuringly, but Hermione, ever astute, didn't take the bait.

"How can you make a cure for him when you don't even know what's wrong with him?" she asked, and Harry silently agreed.

At least, he was silent, until the need to cough became too great, and he let out a strangled sound.

Immediately all eyes were fixed on him, and Hermione's grip became painful. "Harry? Are you awake? Come on Harry, say something!"

_Yeah, I'm awake_, Harry tried to say, but instead giant coughs began to rack his body, and his eyes jumped open. He doubled over in his bed, wrenching his hand from Hermione's.

It seemed to take ages for his body to calm down, but when he finally did, he noticed a pair of hands were slowly rubbing his shoulders. Too firm to be Hermione's, he deducted they must be Pomfrey's, and he was surprised. The nurse was serious about 'her children's' health, yes, but she never got quite so compassionate with them. Once again Harry was a special case.

"Are you all right, Harry?" She asked kindly, sounding like a true mother.

He nodded before taking a few deep breaths and lying back down, his breathing still a bit erratic.

"Yeah, I think," he said, trying to steady his irregular breathing.

That answer seemed to trigger Hermione's frivolous need to know everything, and soon he was barraged by questions. "Harry, what happened? Did someone hex you? Why did you never tell us you were feeling unwell?"

"Hermione-" he coughed again, "Not so fast. I never told you because I was just fine this morning. I told you in Transfigurations that I was feeling ill, didn't I? I don't know what happened, okay? Maybe someone hexed me, maybe I've just got a bad case of the flu."

Madam Pomfrey frowned at this. "I think we can be sure it's not a bad case of the flu, Mr Potter. Your scans show you should be feeling perfectly fine, which you are clearly not."

"But I'm not feeling so bad right now-" that was obviously not the right thing to say, because then the nausea slammed into him full force, forcing him to shut his eyes and he arched his back off the bed. He tried taking deep breaths to stave it off, but it didn't seem to work. In fact, he was now practically hyperventilating.

"What is it?" The nurse asked him worriedly.

Hermione had grasped his hand again, for which Harry was glad; it helped keep him grounded. "Going to be sick," he said shortly through clenched teeth, and he heard Ron running to get a bowl.

He came back just in time, and Harry gratefully grasped the bowl and emptied his breakfast in the thing.

By the time the heaving had stopped, he noticed the room was eerily silent. Then he looked down at the bowl between his legs, and what he was made him want to run as fast as he could, or possibly throw up a second time; the dark grey bowl was not filled with vomit, as Harry had expected, no, it was filled with blood. His blood.

Harry looked up slowly. The others had gone pale and were looking at him and the bowl in an extremely concerned manner. Harry didn't quite know what to say.

The first to jump back to life was Madam Pomfrey, as she said she'd go and get a glass of water for him, but her face looked distant, anxious. Hermione and Ron looked as if they wanted to scoot away from him, but cuddle and comfort him all at the same time.

Thankfully, they stayed somewhere in between, as Hermione took over the rubbing of his shoulders and Ron came to stand next to him, an awkward hand put on Harry's upper arm.

"What's wrong with me?" He asked, his voice gravely and raspy. "What's happening?" He didn't know how many times those questions had been asked that day, but it sure had been a lot.

Ron and Hermione didn't answer. The tension hung thick in the air, making it even harder for Harry to breathe normally. It felt as if an elephant had landed on his chest, and had decided to make Harry's chest his new home.

Luckily, the tension was broken as the nurse returned, in one hand a glass of crystal clear water and in her other a sickly green potion.

"Right, Mr Potter," she said, firm tone decidedly back in place. "It is obvious you are very ill, and I'm not going to wait any longer for those blithering professors to finish their concocting and pondering. I'm going to give you this blood replenishing potion, and then you're going to drink this glass of water. Right after that you'll be given a dreamless sleep potion, and then I'm going to inform the Headmaster that I will no longer stand for putting you through this. Mr Potter; we're going to make you better," she stopped her impressive outburst with a nod of the head, and all Harry could do was to nod back.

At that point the green potion was thrust into his hands and Harry could do nothing but dutifully drink it. The taste made him want to vomit again, but he didn't think that would be such a good idea right now. Then he was handed the glass of water, which he gratefully sipped till the last drop.

He was a little bit more apprehensive about the sleep potion, not wanting to miss anything that was going on. It was him who was ill after all, wasn't it? But at the reproving stare he got from Ron, surprisingly, he drank it nevertheless.

In a few seconds he was asleep, his body tired and worn.

* * *

Ron looked sadly at his best friend that was peacefully sleeping in the clean, white hospital bed. God knew Harry's and his world was anything but peaceful right now. After Harry had defeated Voldemort, he had thought all his worries were over, but apparently not. Apparently, the universe still saw Harry Potter as its plaything.

No, it seemed the peace was far sought. After seven years of turmoil and war, Ron had thought his friend had finally deserved some rest, but no such thing. As soon as Harry appeared to get some smooth sailing, another problem arose. This time in the form of an unknown illness, which left his friend in a state Ron had almost never seen him in before.

But the most worrying thing was, no one knew what to do. And when no one, not even the Headmistress or the bloody potions master, knew what to do, you knew you were in serious trouble. Serious, knee-deep-in-shit trouble.

Ron looked intently at the boy in the bed. Or should he say: man? Harry was no longer a boy, was he? With eighteen years old, he had filled out, his muscles more pronounced than before, and his chin and cheeks showing a light stubble. His face had become squarer, its boyish round shape gone forever. He was still on the short side yes, but next to Ron, everyone was short.

Harry still wore his round glasses that he had since first year. Ron often wondered if he kept those out of pure sentiment, or if he feared people wouldn't recognise him without. But they were now resting discarded on the bedside table.

But even if he didn't have his glasses, he still had his abhorrent sense of fashion and his scar people could recognise him with. The scar hadn't disappeared, as some people had expected it would. Although it never burned anymore, it was still a prominent feature on his friend's face.

Harry stirred slightly, causing Ron to startle out of his thinking. He looked around for Hermione, who he could now proudly call his girlfriend, and sighed when he spotted her bending over a huge book, which she had propped up on one of the beds, a chair pulled over next to it.

He walked over to her, looking over her shoulder at which page she was reading. She had already tried all the books about wizarding illnesses, and was now moving on to Muggle ones. She was reading a page about diverticulitis, when she noticed Ron had moved from his silent vigil in his chair next to Harry's bed.

"Hey," she said simply, eyes going back and forth across the page again. Ron knew that she was focussed on her reading, wanting to know what was wrong with Harry as soon as possible. And if she had to scan every book in the library on both Muggle and wizarding illnesses until she got the right one, then she would do so.

"Hey. Don't you think it's time to get some sleep?" He asked. It was now way past midnight. Harry had been sleeping for more than fourteen hours now. "I'm going to sleep too, you know. It's too late to be reading anymore, and you've been doing so from midday. We could just camp on one of the beds in here, I'm sure Pomfrey won't mind."

For a moment Hermione looked ready to object, but then she sighed and nodded wearily, her eyes already drooping slightly. Ron smiled at her for a second, before walking over to the bed next to where Hermione had dumped her atrociously big book, and he dragged himself in it, not bothering to change his clothes. He would be ready for when Harry woke up.

Hermione took off her robe, and moved the book to another bed, and then took the bed next to Ron's. "I just don't know what's happening to him, Ron. I hate not knowing."

"I know that," he answered. He had known that since first year. "But it's no good tiring yourself out. You're far less productive that way."

His girlfriend smiled at this and then murmured a sleepy goodnight. Ron could quickly hear her breathing evening out after a minute, and he knew she was asleep.

It took a bit longer for him to stop the tumult in his mind, but when he finally did, he fell into a fretful, dream-ridden, slumber.

* * *

Hermione woke to a strange sound. A sort of clicking…. No, it was more like the sound of a bed being shoved around. Why anyone would be pushing beds around at this hour, was above her. Then she remembered where she was and realised where the sound came from. Harry's bed! She jumped out of bed, and ran to the other side of the wing, where Harry had been placed. He was shaking madly in his bad, his whole body seized up.

"Harry!" She shouted, her voice packed with fear. Harry didn't respond. "Ron! Wake up!" Ron groaned, sat up in his bed, ready to protest, but when he saw what was happening, his eyes opened dramatically, and he quickly made his way over. "No! Go and wake Pomfrey," she said urgently, but it didn't matter, because Madam Pomfrey had already appeared in the door of her office, her sleeping gown on, but otherwise looking swift as ever.

She hurried over to them, and quickly assessed the situation. "Oh no… He's seizing," she said, "We've got to stop it, otherwise his heart might give out."

Hermione didn't know what she was waiting for, and quickly drew her wand. The nurse drew hers as well, and looked at Hermione intently. "Statis charm on three, Miss Granger."

Hermione nodded.

"One-" Hermione began the wand movement, "Two-" She opened her mouth, ready to speak the words, "Three," at three they said the charm, and at the same time the hospital doors opened. Hermione didn't look to see who came in, as she was looking fixedly at Harry. A blue hue appeared around him, and he abruptly stopped seizing. He flopped back onto the bed, his back straight once again, instead of arched in an uncomfortable angle. The inane shaking of his limbs had gone too, Hermione saw, relieved. His face looked peaceful again, sleeping, instead of cramped and drawn. She quickly took his pulse, just to be sure.

Only then did she look to see who had entered to wing, and repulsion shook her when she saw Draco Malfoy had decided to make an entrance. The boy had been cleared by the court, of course, but Hermione still found him an absolute horror, and in no way wanted to be around him, especially not when Harry was ill and needed her help.

"Mr Malfoy," said Pomfrey, her voice professional again. "Is there something I can help you with? Is it urgent? I'm afraid I must attend to Mr Potter here, rather sooner than later."

Malfoy frowned for a second, obviously curious as to what was up with Harry, but said nothing about it. "No, it is not very urgent. I could just wait a few minutes until you are done with him," he nodded at Harry, voice smooth and pompous as ever. Hermione sneered at him.

Pomfrey nodded "Good," then she turned back to Harry, and began casting spells over him, assessing his condition. Hermione wasn't happy Malfoy was there to see and hear it all, but she knew she had no other choice than to accept it and ignore him.

It took five minutes before Madam Pomfrey was seemingly satisfied with Harry's condition, and she turned to Hermione. "He's stable for now. I dare not to erase the charm; with any other patient I'd have undone it by now, but as I am still not sure what's up with Potter, I'd like to keep him under it a little bit longer. Preferably until we know just what in Merlin's name is up with him."

Hermione wholeheartedly agreed with that, even though keeping a person under a Statis charm for longer than two hours was not advisable. Nasty side-effects, she was told.

She looked at Ron. He was pale, his freckles standing out outrageously. He was looking at the floor, probably thinking about what this all meant. She wasn't quite sure herself. She focussed on the conversation that was now carrying on behind her.

"No, Mr Malfoy. I've already given you more than is allowed, and I will not deface protocol further. Enough is enough."

"But-" Malfoy seemed quite ready to protest, his face set and just a little bit angry.

"No buts. Dreamless Sleep can only be taken three days in a row, after that the side-effects far outweigh the purposes of the potion," Pomfrey said sternly. It seemed Malfoy had met his match.

He looked ready to protest, but he nodded resignedly. _Malfoy had at least decided to grow some bloody brains_, Hermione thought.

So Malfoy took Dreamless Sleep. Interesting. Was it because he had trouble falling asleep, or was the trouble in the sleeping? Did he have nightmares? He surely dreamed about all the innocent people he had brought into their graves. Or about that fire in the Room of Requirement, where, if it hadn't been for Harry, he would've died himself. Or maybe he missed his little parents, ickle Narcissa and fluffy Lucius.

Hermione shook her head at herself. Sometimes she thought such strange things. Maybe Malfoy was just an insomniac, and had come to Pomfrey for a bit of potion just to help him fall asleep.

Maybe she just thought too much.

She was startled out of her musings as she heard the doors open again, and saw Malfoy despairingly leaving the wing.

* * *

It had been a mere twelve minutes after Malfoy had left, when Harry started seizing again. This time she didn't react quite as bad, but she drew in a sharp breath anyway. She quickly stood up, and took his head in her hands.

"Harry, can you hear me? You need to wake up. Harry. Wake up," she spoke urgently, Pomfrey having joined her by now.

They couldn't cast another Statis charm, this one should still be working fine. She was at a loss. Never had she read about anything like this, not one book mentioned anything like Harry right now. Nausea, dizziness, shortness of breath, seizing, vomiting… it all made no sense. Especially because the scans said nothing was wrong with him.

"Harry, please! Wake up, Harry," Hermione begged with him. And to her surprise, his shaking lessened. It was still there, but he was no longer seizing. It now looked like he was cold. His teeth were even clattering a little.

She quickly grabbed a blanket from the empty bed next to Harry's, and threw it right over the one that was tangled between Harry's legs, having been jumbled during the attack. It seemed to work.

After Hermione had made sure everything was as best as it could get right now, which was to say, Harry unconscious and shivering on a hospital bed, Ron in a slight shock, and herself not far off, she threw a quick Tempus charm. Five o' clock. Nice. It was still dark outside, but then again, it was always dark in Scotland.

"Ron, I can't go back to sleep right now. I'm going to get a few books from the dormitory. Do you need something?" she asked. Ron just shook his head.

She had only set one foot out of the hospital, when she noticed she wasn't alone in the hall. A person was standing a little bit further away, but she could still see who it was. Shocking white platinum hair; dark robes with green edges; obscured face, but aristocratic features still visible; Malfoy. Who else?

She had to cross him to be able to get to the dormitories. She didn't like that. What was she going to do? Ignore him? What was he still here for anyway?

She walked up to him, and then rounded on him angrily. All the while Malfoy was still looking every bit aloof as he could be. Hermione fumed. "Malfoy, why are you still here? Pomfrey asked you to leave."

Just then a horrible idea popped into her head. What if he hadn't been there for the potion, but to hurt Harry? Had he known Harry was in the wing, and had he been preparing to strike while Harry was unaware?

"I could tell you the truth, Granger, but I doubt you'd believe me," he said, eyebrows slightly raised.

"I'd like to hear it anyway," she said, angry that he was just standing there as if he owned the damn place. And because she had to look up at least 8 inches to look him straight into the eyes. He was offensively tall.

"I haven't been sleeping well lately. In fact, I haven't been sleeping at all. The potion Pomfrey gave to me was a relief, but as you heard, she can only give it so much. Which is not much. I was going to ask her nicely, but because she outright refused, I'm going to sneak in again, when she's sleeping, and steal it out of the cupboard," he said, face not betraying any emotion at all. "And there you have it. I was going to go back to the dormitories and just sit through the night, when I realised that is not how I like to spend my time. So I went back here, and waited for all of you to go back to sleep again."

Hermione's mouth might just be hanging open a little bit. That was the longest Malfoy had ever talked to her without calling her Mudblood, or any other such things.

"Surprised, Granger?" he asked with an infuriating smirk. "Thought I was up to something, didn't you? Come to poison dear little Harry, yes? That's not necessary, I hear, he's doing that himself just fine."

That caused Hermione to snap out of her shock, and anger made her see red. "You have no right to talk about Harry like that! He's in there, dying for all we know, and you're just here, belittling him! Do you have any idea what he's been through? Do you?! He doesn't deserve this! He deserves some rest! Not some unknown illness! Now, let me through! Go and get your damned potion, I don't care, just don't say anything about Harry or me or Ron ever again! Now go away!"

She broke off with a soft sob, and she took just a moment to revel in the shock on Malfoy's face, before storming off to Gryffindor Tower.

Luckily there was no one still up. Or already up, she should say, so she grabbed her book of one of the wooden tables, and quickly made her way back to the hospital wing.

She didn't know what would happen to Harry now. Maybe he had to be moved to St Mungo's. And what the hell were Slughorn and McGonagall waiting for? Where even were they? They are supposed to be the ones with the answers. Why were they not here?

* * *

**Chapter Two  
****Dreams**

Harry was dreaming. He wasn't sure if it was a happy dream or not, because the images were blurry, and the scenes often changed. One moment it was peaceful and he was happy, dreaming of green fields and blue skies, and the next the image was shaky, but he was sure the dream changed from peaceful to one of horror. The shaking got worse and worse, and could hear someone whispering urgently, but that didn't help him. He didn't know if he was dreaming the voice, or if it was real. All he knew was that he couldn't escape the dream, caught in the confines of his own mind.

Then slowly the blackness seeped out of his dream, and green began to replace it. The shaking lessened, but it didn't go. Whereas the green had been vibrant and the skies a clear blue before, they were now grey, and the green had a tinge of brown to it. He shivered. It was cold. Cold in his dream.

He didn't know what was happening. Was this just some fucked up corner of his mind that had chosen to make an appearance in his dreams? Or was there something else? It felt like…

Closer. They needed to get closer. He couldn't be like this. Once they came closer, everything would be all right. Then the grass would grow and the clouds would move.

But it didn't. The landscape stayed as it was, and Harry stayed as he was. Cold and shivering, caught in a dream that didn't feel like one. Where was he?

* * *

Draco decided that he had been waiting long enough. Now was the time to get in there and do it. Surely the redhead and that infernal nurse would be back asleep by now? And if they weren't…. Well, Draco wasn't a Slytherin for nothing. He would sneak in, stealthy as he was.

He sneezed. "Damn," this wasn't a very opportune moment to get ill. Although… he did have an alibi to be sneaking into the wing now. Yes, if everything went bollocks up, he'd just tell them he was getting ill, and needed a Pepper-up Potion.

Draco felt a Slytherin to the bone.

_Now, then, enough straggling, _he thought to himself, and quickly made his way over to the great doors of the infirmary. Not exactly stealthy. They sure would make a lot of noise when opened.

He opened them anyway, sick of trying to go to sleep, and not even getting a little shuteye. That woman really had no conscience. How could she just let innocent students welter about, tired to their bones, but unable to get some sleep? Surely that was unprofessional.

Though, Draco wasn't really an 'innocent student', was he? He grinned to himself.

He quickly looked around, and sighed a sigh of relief when Pomfrey was nowhere to be seen, and Weasley had fallen asleep on the chair next to Potter's bed.

What was up with Potter anyway? Granger had said he'd been dying. Was that really true? Or had she just said that because emotions had been running high? Well, she sure sounded serious. But Potter couldn't be dying, could he? Surely a person who could defeat the Dark Lord could defeat an illness as well. But they didn't know what was up with him. If no one could help him, it seemed Potter was, once again, in it alone.

Draco quickly grabbed a Dreamless Sleep out of the cabinet, as well as a Pepper-up, just for good measure.

He had been planning to make a quick escape, but something caught his eye. That is to say, _Potter_ caught his eye. He looked at Weasley, checking if he was really asleep, and then made his way over to Potter's bed, tiptoeing all the way. For all he knew, Weasley was a light sleeper. _  
_  
He stopped next to Potter's bed, and studied him critically. It didn't look as if he was dying. He was just lying there, looking as if he was asleep, not looking like he was mortal peril. But then, he'd heard how Pomfrey had spoken about him. _He's stable for now. I dare not to erase the charm; with any other patient I'd have undone it by now, but as I am still not sure what's up with Potter, I'd like to keep him under it a little bit longer_, she'd said. That didn't sound as if Potter was perfectly fine. But Potter couldn't really be dying, could he? Even though Draco hated to admit, the boy was brave and courageous to the heart. A little infection won't hurt him. Even if the Healer would tell him he'd be incurable, he still would fight his way out of it.

Last year had actually been rather nice to Draco. At least, if you thought that mad Gryffindors, shaken Hufflepufs, overthinking Ravenclaws and awed Slytherins were a nice thing to be around. He had defected in the last year of the war, he'd fought for the Light side in the end. Sure, his parents were less than happy about that, but Draco didn't care.

Since his clearance by the court, everyone had been so much nicer to him. No one really _trusted _him, but still. He liked to think he'd helped Potter. By coming over to the Light side, and persuaded his House mates to do so too, the side had gained considerable numbers. Almost all of Slytherin house had 'turned traitor', as his parents had said, and that sure had helped in the final battle. Besides greater numbers, the Death Eater parents were all a bit more cautious when it might be their own child they are trying to stun.

But all that didn't mean people actually liked him. Well, his own house; but most of those now thought he was the Saviour of Mankind himself, and that didn't make for great friends. As had been the case with Granger earlier; people still thought he was up to something. They had accepted him into the school, but that was about as far as it went. Draco knew that if he put just one toe out of line, he'd be shunned and stunned.

His friends, Blaise; Pansy; Gregory, had all come to the Light side too. A few days after Potter had defeated Voldemort, people had been creating banners with 'Light Side, The Right Side' and, much to Draco's pleasure and Pansy's wrath, she'd been Permanent-Stickered with one. It had been a very high-in-demand new rage the Weasley Twins had invented. She'd been close to ripping her hair of during the three hours it took for Blaise to find the counter curse. Not because she didn't think it was the right side, but because the red and yellow clashed horribly with her green robes. Or so Draco had said.

Draco blinked at Potter. He had certainly changed during the last year. But not in the way people had expected. Rather than a gaunt skeleton of a boy, broken by war and death, there was now a strong man. _Gryffindors_, Draco thought despairingly, _Instead of breaking down after enough trauma to last at least six people, he just ups and gets a growth spurt_.

But not just a growth spurt, Draco noticed. He had grown stubble too, and he had grown a fair set of muscles. Of course, all that didn't really matter when you were lying in a hospital bed, with no cure for what was wrong with you.

A piece of Potter's jet-black hair fell into his face. Almost without thinking, Draco pushed it away, his fingers lingering on Potter's forehead, just next to his scar.

Potter gave a great shuddering breath and Draco jumped, snatching back his hand as if burned, and quickly looked for a place to hide. But there was no such thing in the cold, stone infirmary. Particularly not now when the sun was just coming over the treetops, shining with golden rays through the big vertical windows of the wing, and illuminating every detail of the place in pure silver. Draco didn't blend with silver, he knew that much.

Luckily Weasley was still sleeping and Potter hadn't been loud enough to alarm Pomfrey's alert systems.

A soft cough shook him out of his thinking. "Please," Potter rasped. Potter definitely sounded ill.

Draco didn't know what to do. Did he have to tell Potter he was here? The guy obviously hadn't spotted him yet, in fact, his eyes were still closed. Maybe Potter was just rambling, hallucinating, and didn't even feel Draco touch him. But what would Potter do, if he did say he was here? Would he be disgusted Draco had touched him? Would he… yeah, what? Yell for Weasley to wake up and get the great big bad Death Eater out of here?

"Please," he rasped again, and Draco drew just the littlest bit closer. "Just, do it again, whatever you did. Whoever you are."

Now Draco was in an impasse. Potter had actively asked to touch him again. Surely he was breaking several rules if he did so? 'Rule No. 7.14: No One Shall Touch The Great Harry Potter, For He Is Above All Mortal', or something like that. Or maybe just the rule: boys didn't touch boys. Well, suck that.

Draco put his hand on Potter's shoulder, and Potter sighed in relief. "Thanks," he said, "I didn't think I was able to get out of that nightmare… dream."

Draco frowned, yet didn't say anything. His voice would unmask him, he was sure. Even though they mightn't like it, they knew each other very well, from rituals such as eating patterns to the feel of each other's nose under their nearing fist.

"Who are you?" Potter asked, asking the question Draco didn't dare answer.

He stood very still, his hand still on Potter's shoulder. No he wouldn't tell him. He couldn't. If he could, he would.

He cleared his throat. "Nobody," he said, his voice just gruff enough to not be recognisable. Then he let his hand drop from Potter's shoulder, quickly turned around, and strode out of the infirmary, doing a great impression of Snape as he did so.

The doors slammed shut, hard, and Draco cringed. He was sure he had managed to wake the entire wing with that one. He quickly began making his way to the Slytherin common room, but on his way down he encountered no one other than Hermione Granger, Smartest of the Trio. That was her nickname in the papers of course. Draco would never ever admit that, even though he knew it to be true.

"Managed to get your potions?" she asked, and Draco had to do try quite hard to not look surprised. Maybe this girl was bipolar, because that had been a polite question. He just nodded dumbly.

She nodded back, but it seemed more to herself than to him. "I'm sorry I got so angry with you just then. It's just… without Harry, I wouldn't know what to do."

Draco wanted to say 'I understand', because if Potter wasn't there, who would be his next fight-buddy? Potter was cut for the job, that much was clear. But he thought that if he did, Granger might get a heart attack, so he just nodded and strode away, desperate to be the first to leave. It made people think you had more important things to do, and that was always a good impression to make. Even though Granger knew he had been out of bed just so he could get into his bed, but his time actually sleep too.

He said the password to the portrait, _dracones obtinebit_, slipped into the common room. There was one person already up, a third year, probably frantically making his homework for that day. Luckily Eight Year didn't have that much homework, considering they repeated most of the things that they had learnt last year. Only this time it didn't include torturing First Years.

The third year boy looked up to see who had entered and his eyes widened dramatically when he saw who it was. Draco wondered if he could get the boy to bow if he tried hard enough. Instead, he just rose an elegant eyebrow, and took off for the Eight Year's dormitories. At least they all had their own rooms now, what with some people not returning for Eight Year and, of course, those who hadn't survived the war. A separate door in the hall of boy's dormitories led to another hall, which ended in a round room, with eight doors with everyone's name on it. Draco's was the one at five o'clock, just next to the hallway. He could make a quick escape.

Everyone of seventh year Slytherin had returned, except a girl named Tracey Davis. All the others, which is to say, Millicent Bulstrode; Gregory Goyle; Daphne Greengrass; Theodore Nott; Pansy Parkinson and Blaise Zabini had returned. _And I'm grateful for that_, he thought, as he read the nametags on the doors. They didn't have it easy. At first half the school thought they were Devil's incarnate.

He opened the door to his room, and breathed in the familiar scent of wood and linen. As he was thinking about his soft bed, he realised how tired he was. He set down the potions on his bedside table, looking at the Pepper-up, but deciding not to take it. The cold that he had seemed to be getting was wholly gone.

He lay down on his bed, Dreamless Sleep in his hand. Then he promptly fell asleep without even taking one single drop.


	2. Chapter 3 and 4

**Chapter Three **  
**Getting Better...?**

Harry woke to a peculiar feeling. He wasn't sure what to think. For all intends and purposes, he felt... fine, actually. He felt perfectly fine.

Not many people would be surprised when they felt out they were fine, but Harry could dance right now, if he wasn't entangled in the bed sheets and blanket. He groaned, and tried to pull the heavy linen off of him. It was quite warm, as the sun shone into the large windows of the wing. Looking at the height of the sun, Harry estimated it was probably around 8:30.

Then he heard another groan, only this one wasn't made by him. It had come from Ronald, who had seemingly fallen asleep in a very awkward position on the chair next to Harry's bed.

"Who's making all that noise?" Ron asked sleepily, and Harry waited for the inevitable. "Who's up alrea- Harry!" he shouted when he bothered to look up, flexing the muscles in his neck, his face full of joy. "You're awake! Are you all right? Nothing's wrong, is there? You look better than you did last night, that's for sure."

Harry grinned. It caused Ron's whole face to glow even more, if such a thing was possible. "No, nothing's wrong. I think... I think I'm better."

Ron whooped at the news, and quickly walked over to the bed Hermione was still sleeping on. "'Mione, Harry's awake! Wake up!"

"Hm," she made a few vague noises. "Wha... Harry? Is there something wrong with Harry?"

Ron frowned. He seemed to realise his girlfriend wasn't the quickest in the morning. He looked at Harry with a feigned exasperated scowl on his face, "No. Harry's awake. Sit up, you'll see."

Hermione practically shot up instead of sitting up, as Ron had suggested, and looked at Harry wide eyes, before she jumped out of bed, and ran over to him. "Harry, you're awake!" she said, exact imitation of Ron a few moments earlier. "We were so worried. We didn't know what was wrong with you. We tried a few things, but then you started seizing, and the Statis didn't work, we were really at wits end. I was really afraid you would only get worse, and... you know. And then there was this whole thing with Malfoy -"

"Malfoy?!" Harry asked, shocked.

Hermione seemed kind of surprised Harry had reacted in that way, and she looked at Ron uncertainty. She tried to smile at Harry, but it was more of a poorly concealed grimace. "Well, yeah. He came in here for potions, but Madam Pomfrey wouldn't give them, she said he'd had enough. Apparently Malfoy didn't think so, and sneaked in after Pomfrey was gone."

"What?" This time the outburst hadn't come from Harry, but rather from Ron. "You never told me he came back in here! Why didn't I notice?"

"Well, that's not for me to decide Ron, you probably fell back asleep. And anyway. He's a Slytherin, he knows his way around."

Ron didn't seem satisfied. "But you obviously knew he was going to come back in. Was he in here with Harry unconscious without any supervision?!"

"Honestly Ron, you act like he's some sort of criminal."

"Well, yeah, maybe because that's exactly what he is!"

Harry sighed and fought the urge to cover his ears. Hermione and Ron were a thing now, had been for almost a year, but it seemed more like they were an old married couple by the arguments they were having. They love each other, yet they can't stand each other.

So, Malfoy had been up here too. The last three months, since school year had started, Harry hadn't been sure where he stood with the Slytherin. They had been behaving remarkably civil toward each other, and - given their past - that was quite an achievement. But there had also been fights between them. Harry found it hard to seize Malfoy up; one moment they'd be talking to each other, just things like Quidditch and the like, and the next they'd be fighting, mostly over one single stupid comment.

But something in the fights had changed too. No longer were they filled with pure unadulterated hatred, two boys fighting until they'd drop dead to the floor, no, they had grown up, looked past differences in blood or status, or whose side they were on, and now... their fights were just that, fights, quarrels. Arguments that turned into clashes with each other, but nothing more than that. Sometimes Harry thought Malfoy enjoyed fighting with him. Which was of course ridiculous. Was it?

It wasn't as if Harry really minded the fights. He knew Malfoy like he knew no other person alive, had mapped him solely by the feel of his fist on Malfoy's skin. Malfoy was his aggression-relief buddy. If he was angry, he'd just go to Malfoy and ask for a fight. And Malfoy was as cordial these days as to accept. In that view, Malfoy was like truly unique. No one else knew Harry like that; they all thought of his as the Saviour, the 'Golden Boy'. Malfoy knew he was anything but. Malfoy was the only one who had seen his other side. In some ways, Malfoy was his best friend, albeit it was a bit of a morbid friendship.

No, they were not two furiously angry boys fighting each other now; they were two men who had been through so much, who had been expected to do so much, who were just relieving their anxiousness and ire on each other, but it wasn't aimed at each other. They understood each other in their rage, and that was why they sought each other out.

He'd better not repeat what he had just thought to Ron. If he let Ron hear he thought Malfoy knew him best, and was his best friend, Ron'd blow his head off, and Malfoy wouldn't be much better off.

But if Malfoy had been here in the wing, would there be a chance that he... no. Surely not. Why would Malfoy ever touch, or knowingly relieve him of a nightmare. That was not on a Malfoy's to-do list; 'No. 7: Save Saviour himself from claws of terrifying nightmare'.

Although, it would be highly unlikely there had been anyone else up here, without Ron noticing. And secondly, Harry was sure it had been a boy who had touched him. No girl could pull off such a deep, gruffly voice. What were the odds of another boy that had been up here in the infirmary, next to Malfoy, who also hadn't managed to trigger Pomfrey's alarms or hadn't shaken Ron from his sleep? Close to zero, right?

And now that Harry thought about it... Those had been Quidditch-hands. Seeker-hands. Long and slender, perfect for catching the swift ball. And when those fingers had brushed his forehead, so very close to touching his scar... He had felt just the tip of the nail, which meant the nails were perfectly trimmed. Not too long, he had felt only the tip, but not too short either. Not like his, he thought, as he looked at his own nails. He had bitten them to the root, only a very thin stipe of white appearing now, because he hadn't had time to bite them off yet again.

He didn't quite know what Malfoy's hands looked like, because he often encountered them clenched into a fist, but he did know Malfoy had absurdly long fingers. He held them just crooked enough to be elegant, but with anyone else he was sure those hands would look like broken twigs of a beach tree.

Harry concluded his long internal examination with the knowledge that he was quite sure Malfoy had been the one to touch him. Malfoy was the one that had put his hand back on his shoulder when he asked. Malfoy had been the one to get him out of the strange dream. Malfoy had touched him, only this time it didn't result in blood.

Harry wasn't sure how he felt about all of this.

"Mr Potter, how do you feel?" asked a voice he knew all too good; Pomfrey. It seemed Ron and Hermione had woken her up in the time he had been thinking, and hadn't been paying attention to the outside world.

"Fine. That's what's wrong, isn't it? I feel fine," he said, and for the first time since he had woken up, he felt some apprehension slip into his bones. Sure, he felt fine. But that was just the thing. He'd been having seizures and vomiting up blood not twelve hours ago. And suddenly all was good? Suddenly his body had decided to stop torturing Poor Harry, and just gone back to normal? Harry shivered; he felt this was far from over.

"Yes, Mr Potter, I dare say it is. Never have I seen anything like you last night. But still the scans told us nothing, and I think," she said, as she took out her wand and cast the same diagnosing spells. "Just as I thought. It stills says nothing is wrong. This is just highly peculiar. I just had a firecall from Minerva. She and Horace have tested your blood, and it showed nothing. Well, that is not entirely true. She reported it did carry some miniscule black orbs, which they couldn't make sense of. That's why they took so long; they have been testing the globes for hours now, and they still can't make sense of it. However, Mr Potter, I must say; it is beginning to look like you've been poisoned, with a poison we know nothing about," she finished, a grave look on her face.

Hermione gasped from her stance next to Ron's chair, but Harry didn't. He was starting to feel this thing with Malfoy and his dream and then his illness and particularly this recovery after Draco had touched him were all related. And if he knew one thing for certain, it was that Malfoy hadn't poisoned him. It was very likely that Malfoy knew as little as he did, if he had even connected the dots at all. But then, what was happening with Harry?

"You don't seem very surprised Mr Potter. Did you know someone had poisoned you?" she asked, and Harry questioned what to do.

Should he tell her about the whole thing with Malfoy? No, he didn't think that would be such a great idea. At least not until he knew more about the situation himself.

Then what? "No. I don't think someone has. Maybe the orbs are just blood props. I don't know. But I do know no one has put anything in my food or drinks," he knew it sounded lame, and it was lame. He knew full well the blood wouldn't clot, and he wasn't like Moody; he didn't always check his food or drinks before consuming it. For all he knew, someone could have put something in his pumpkin juice. He just felt and knew that wasn't the case.

Pomfrey looked scandalised. "Mr Potter, you can't seriously think our vials don't contain anti-clutter spells? The orbs are black; they are not part of your blood. We still don't know what's wrong with you. Also, you have, sadly, been under a Statis charm for too long. I'm sure you'll suffer the consequences of that before long. And for those reasons I'm keeping you here for as long as it takes us until we do know what is wrong with you, and the side-effects of the charm are finished."

Harry sighed. That sure could take a long time. But it wasn't like he hadn't expected it. He knew Pomfrey would only discharge patients when she knew they were perfectly fine. And, yeah, one might argue Harry was fine himself right now, but he knew that was far from true. At any moment he might fall ill again, and maybe this time Malfoy wouldn't be there to save him.

"Fine. Keep me here, keep me in the dungeons; I don't care. Although, I would like to keep up with my homework," as soon as he had uttered that sentence, Hermione straightened her back and smiled a little bit.

"I could help you with that, Harry," she said kindly, just as Harry had expected her to.

He was glad he had such good friends.

* * *

It was night. Harry was sitting up in his bed, propped up onto his pillow that was resting against the headboard. It was silent in the hospital wing, Hermione and Ron were sleeping serenely on the beds on the opposite side of the room. Harry had told them they could go back to the common room if they wanted, but they wouldn't hear of it. 'No,' they had said, 'not while you're up here, alone.' Harry had smiled then.

The nausea hadn't returned, nor had any of the other symptoms. But instead of feeling relieved, Harry felt more anxious than ever. He felt like he was living on borrowed time, like his heart could give out on any moment.

He was just so hungering for any information. Anything at all. He wanted to know what was going on with him, with the black clots in his blood, with Malfoy. But then, why hadn't he told Pomfrey about that?

Harry thought he knew the answer, but he didn't want to admit it. If he was truly honest, this whole this was kind of exciting. Troubling, yes, but adrenaline raced through him too. For the first time in his life, he had a secret that was completely his. Well, and Malfoy's too, but Malfoy obviously hadn't figured anything out yet, because he hadn't seen him up here since last night. However, that could also mean Malfoy had figured it out. But somehow, Harry didn't think so. Malfoy wouldn't ignore him, wouldn't ignore what change had happened in Harry once he touched him.

After the events of last night, something had changed between them. Or at least, something had changed in the way Harry thought about him. Instead of him being just a guy he could go to if he was feeling riled, he now felt Malfoy was a real person. Last night, the perfect Slytherin poker-face, the Malfoy mask, had slipped. That had been obvious in the way Malfoy had to clear his throat, and how his voice sounded; not pompous, arrogant or conceited, but insecure, confused and timid. Although Harry had known for a long time, it was relieving to finally break through the fa ade, and see who Draco Malfoy was behind that. Even if it was just a very small glimpse, it was a victory for Harry.

Now he was here, lying on his bed - his hospital bed, but Harry figured he might as well get used to it being his own bed for now at least - and mulling things over. He was much too confused and excited to go to sleep. A myriad of thoughts kept whirling though his head, most of them more ridiculous than the last. From 'I sure hope Ron wouldn't wake up right now, if he'd see I wasn't asleep he'd either alert the whole infirmary, or want to have an intimate discussion about my feelings' to 'Damn, that Malfoy sure is slippery. Makes me wonder what else of him is slick too.'

That last thought had Harry almost choking on his own tongue, not sure whether to laugh at himself of cry. He blamed it on the fact of him being a perfectly capable eighteen year-old man, who hadn't had any sexual relief for the last week at least. It made a guy desperate, is what it did.

And well, Harry had figured out the blokes-thing a long time ago. Even before the final battle at Hogwarts, he had known. His excuse to Ginny about him not being able to put her in danger, had been half a lie. He didn't want to put her in danger, but he also no longer wanted a romantic relation with her. She was like his sister, and it felt wrong. Partly because it was kind of weird to be dating the daughter of the mother who had practically adopted you, but also because Harry had begun to notice the 'other side' interested him more.

He had realised that maybe it wasn't normal to check the other boys out when changing in the locker rooms. And maybe staring at McLaggen's ass wasn't such a normal thing to do, either. He had no chance to investigate further, however, because after sixth year, he had been whisked away on a camping trip. He did know what was going on with him though, and was very sure the feelings he was having were genuine, even though he never really had had a real relationship with a boy. So, Harry had broken his romantic ties with Ginny. Now that he was officially single, it annoyed him to no end that all the girls of Hogwarts - except maybe the Slytherin ones, but that was jolly good, because they weren't the nicest and prettiest things on the planet anyway - were following him around, everywhere he went. They almost had hearts in their eyes, he thought depreciatingly.

But no one knew. Yet. Not even Ron and Hermione. Even though Harry knew Hermione had speculations about him. Sometimes she just got this dicey look in her eyes, and it scared Harry to no end. Maybe she already knew; Harry didn't know.

But he was sure Ron didn't know. Ron just wasn't the most graceful of beings. If Ron knew, the whole school would know, if not solely of the fact that he would shout 'What?! You're gay?!' the second Harry said the word.

Harry frowned when he felt a flutter in his stomach. He quickly checked himself, but he didn't feel nauseous or anything. But still...

A few minutes later he concluded that, yes, he did feel nauseous. He sighed. Even though he had known better, he had hoped it wouldn't come back. He toyed with the notion to wake Ron and Hermione and tell them what was going on, but he was abruptly torn from his musings as one of the doors of the infirmary creaked open, and a very blond head poked inside. Instantly, Harry's nausea lessened considerably.

Malfoy was here. What was he here for? Had he run out of potions and come to get another one? Had he figured it out? Was he angry with Harry for making him touch him? Did he want to talk? Harry hoped so.

"Potter?" Malfoy breathed, voice very soft so as not to wake the others.

Harry nodded, and made a come-over sign with his hand. Malfoy padded along the tiles, taking care not to make any noise.

"I didn't actually come here for... well, that is to say..." Malfoy stuttered, and Harry frowned. Malfoy had obviously completely lost his composure, because he never, ever stuttered. "I came for more potions. I didn't know you would still be awake. I trust your friends told you about my stealing those potions?"

Harry nodded. He had a feeling Malfoy was lying, that he hadn't come just for more potions, but didn't act on it. "Yes. And frankly, I don't blame you. I've had many a sleepless night and I all hated them."

Malfoy looked relieved, whether that was because he was relieved that Harry didn't mind him stealing from Madam Pomfrey, or because he thought Harry believed his lie, Harry wasn't sure.

"Yeah, I really had trouble sleeping of late. I couldn't get to sleep for the life of me," he said, far chattier than Harry had ever seen him before.

Never had Harry talked to him like this; only Malfoy and him. It was a novelty. Suddenly Harry felt much more at liberty; he could tell Malfoy anything he liked, without anyone listening in. Without anyone judging him for being friendly with him. And apparently, judging by his sudden chattiness, Malfoy had realised that too. He grinned a bit, and the blond frowned at him.

"What're you so happy for? You're lying in a hospital bed, you know. No one knows what's up with you. I wouldn't exactly call that a happy time to be alive," he said scathingly. "But then again, you always were the weird kid."

Harry looked affronted. "I was not! You were! With your hair always slicked back, I thought it was gonna fall off if you continued like that! Really-"

"Shh, Potter, you'll wake everyone else with your ignorant squeaking," Malfoy cut him off, but he didn't look angry.

Harry sighed. So much for being able to talk freely to Draco.

Should he tell him that he knew? Obviously Malfoy wasn't up here only for the potions. Malfoy may be a Slytherin, but it turned out he was a preposterously bad liar when he was trying to pull something off. Or maybe Harry had just caught him off guard. Anyway, it didn't matter which way you turned it; Malfoy was a mystery.

Harry looked up, and found Malfoy looking at him intently. He didn't look away from the gaze for a few seconds, but then he heaved a sigh and looked down at his hands which he had placed on his bed. "I know it was you," he said, voice soft, doing his best to sound completely neutral. He didn't want to sound as if he was accusing Draco of something.

For a few moments the infirmary was bathed in complete silence, before Draco took a deep breath and started speaking. "You were unconscious, and looked uncomfortable. Your hair was all plastered over your face. I just... thought I'd be nice and push it away for you," he said, sounding reluctant to admitting so much. But Harry knew his hair hadn't been 'plastered' to his face. He had felt Draco brush back just a little lock of hair which had fallen over his eye, right next to his scar. "When I touched you, you... I don't know, you sort of seemed to snap out of a dream, a nightmare, and you were breathing really heavily. Like you had been underwater for too long."

Harry startled. Yes, that was exactly what the dream had felt like. Like he was being pushed down by litres of water, reshaping and distorting him. And when Malfoy had touched him, it felt like he was the one to grasp one of his flailing limbs and pull him back to the surface again.

"Why didn't you want me to know?" Harry asked. "That it was you?"

Malfoy now looked really uncomfortable. It seemed the guy didn't talk about his feelings much, if this was so hard for him. "I thought you might hold it against me."

"Hold it against you?" Harry asked harshly, and Malfoy flinched. He lowered his voice. "Why, oh why, would I ever hold it against you that you got me out of a bad dream?"

Malfoy shrugged and didn't answer. Eventually he spoke; "Why are you being so nice to me?" he asked softly, and Harry had to try hard not to smile. Sometimes Malfoy was just adorable.

"Because _you_ are being nice to _me_. If you would start acting like a great git right about now, I would too."

"But why? I am being nice to you - most of the time - because you and your side have been so accepting of us so far. You recognised us, even though we were the enemy. We were the traitors of your enemy. That doesn't make us good people. That makes us even worse than the worse. I am being nice to you because I have no reason not to be. You saved us all, Potter. I know how much you hate to hear that, but it's true. But me... us... we did nothing. We joined you when we saw you were obviously going to win the war, but most of us did that because of fear. Fear for death and fear for being on the wrong side. I am still the son of Death Eaters. I almost joined them myself. Over the past years I have been nothing but an absolute horror to you, and your friends. I just don't see why someone like you, some would say 'the purest of the purest', would want to talk, interact with someone like me; 'Death Eater scum', or so I've been told."

"Draco," he said, and Malfoy gasped at this, his eyes very wide. Harry would have laughed if he wasn't so serious right now. "Not everything in the world is about balance, about one thing against the other. Not everything is about vengeance and forgiveness. Life isn't keeping track of points. There's not some giant banner somewhere with 'Potter: 15738 points, Malfoy: 3'. But live is about acknowledging your mistakes. And above all it is about learning from those mistakes, and, if possible, correct them. You'll learn the most from that. In the end, you saw that the side you were on was not the right one, and you defected. _That's_ what this is all about. You saw what was wrong, you corrected it, and for that, I am able to forgive all your other mistakes, and see you for who you are: someone who stood on the wrong side and had the power to walk away from that side. I realise how completely terrifying that must have been. I respect you for that. Voldemort can be very persuasive, I experienced that first-hand."

Malfoy looked stunned. Harry felt smug. He wasn't great with words, but he had been able to at least kind of tell what he felt was true.

"I- Thank you," said the Slytherin, sounding completely, utterly sincere. Harry liked it.

"You're welcome."

Harry felt so giddy, like he just had made a new friend. And who knew, maybe he had. He only felt giddier when Malfoy left a few minutes later, with no potion. It seemed the Slytherin had completely forgotten about his alibi.

* * *

**Chapter Four**  
**Revelations**

The following day, Sunday, was spent partly in celebration that Harry hadn't fallen ill again, and partly making enormous piles of homework. _Why did I ever ask Hermione to help me with this_, Harry thought despairingly, as he looked at his Transfigurations essay. He was supposed to write ten inches about the progress of becoming an Animagus, but so far he only had one. He had run out of ideas about what to write, and was now just staring blankly at it, listening absentmindedly to the sound of Hermione's quill scribbling away on her own piece of parchment.

Ronald had left them some twenty minutes ago, as he said he was tired of hospital food, and had gone down to lunch in the Great Hall. Harry wished he could join him, but even though he was allowed to wander about the hospital wing if he so wished, he wasn't allowed to take one step outside. Harry thought all of this was a bit disproportionate, but Pomfrey wouldn't hear of letting him go without her knowing exactly what was wrong with Harry. And well, Harry understood that. He himself knew a bit more about the situation than Pomfrey did, which meant that the nurse knew nothing, and Harry was just guessing.

Maybe he was some sort of Creature, a vampire maybe. He didn't know about a magical creature with black orbs in its blood, but then again, he never really paid attention at Care of Magical Creatures. And they had never covered it in Defence either. If only he could go to the library.

_It's not like McGonagall hasn't thought about that either_, said a voice in his mind mockingly. _Well,_ said another one, _maybe she's just looking in the wrong direction. Maybe she's looking at Muggle illnesses, or potions, or Magical Maladies. Maybe the idea of a Creature hasn't even passed anyone's mind_. The library had a whole section on Magical Creatures. Harry was sure there was something that could at least _resemble_ this. It was just so infuriating. He knew what to do, but he was confined in a freaking hospital bed.

_So, why don't you just tell them_, asked the first voice. Harry sighed. However selfish his reasons might be, he didn't want to tell them. He wanted to keep this knowledge for himself, until the time was right. Until he knew for sure what was going on. Until he knew what he was. He didn't want to have someone else figure out before him; people always knew him better than he himself. Now was the time to change that.

He also couldn't shake the feeling that Malfoy had something to do with this. He didn't know what, but he had had enough brainpower to connect the dots. Anytime Malfoy came close to him, his nausea would disappear. And now that he thought about it; his nausea from last night had been completely gone after his little talk with the Slytherin. Anytime Malfoy came close to him, everything just seemed brighter; he felt better, mentally and physically. Or maybe it was the other way around: anytime Draco went away and/or stayed away for too long, the symptoms would recur. Although, the time in between the recurring nausea seemed to be getting larger. That was a good sign at least.

And, his time with Malfoy last night had been kind of nice. Oh, who was he kidding, it was very nice. To have that end right now… They would all probably think Malfoy had poisoned him, or something like that. He wouldn't be able to enjoy his one-on-one moments with the man, because they would all fear Malfoy was up to something.

But what did that all mean? Harry didn't know. He really needed to go to the library.

* * *

Draco frowned, sandwich with bacon halfway to his mouth. Weasley was sitting at the Gryffindor table. This wasn't such a big revelation on itself, but the past two days had the Golden Trio nowhere to be found. Of course, the whole school knew by now that Potter had fallen ill, and, if it weren't for Professor Byrne, the hospital wing would be clogged by now. All those hero-loving girls had made get-well cards, and they were seriously infected with the Potter-virus, Draco could see. The thought made him gag a bit.

As for them not getting to the wing at all; Byrne, their new Defence against the Dark Arts teacher, had put up ward to not let anyone into the hall who wasn't seriously ill, or didn't have any other true reason to be there, besides bestowing Potter with flutter-kisses. As if Potter wanted such vile lips on his skin.

Draco grimaced. Sometimes those Potter-thoughts just slipped in. He could not _not_ think them, he couldn't tell his brain to shut itself off. Potter was good looking, all right? Draco was a healthy eighteen year-old, and he was perhaps a little bit gay. So what?

Draco was ripped from his soul searching by Pansy, who nudged him. "What?" he asked snapped irritably, and Pansy sighed.

"Really Draco, you go from gutsy to completely intolerable in one second. I just wanted to ask you to pass me the marmalade," she said, her face laced with exasperation. She knew him too well. "But considering that is too much to ask for you, I'll get it myself."

Draco nodded. "Good. Certainly do so," he said absently, and turned back toward the Gryffindor table. Maybe Weasley had had a row with Potter. Well, no, that was a bit drastic. Maybe he had just wanted to eat some decent food. Draco wondered how the guy stayed so thin; Merlin knew he ate like a pig.

He thought back to last night. The potions had been just an alibi, but he knew that Potter – thick headed as he was – would believe it in a second. He felt kind of mortified when he had come back down to the dungeons and realised he had completely forgotten them, and considered going back upstairs, but concluded that that would be even more awkward than just staying down here. Potter had probably forgotten about that ruse anyway. That kid really wasn't the brightest.

Nevertheless, last night had been… interesting. Exciting. Talking to Potter – alone – had opened up a whole new range of possibilities for him. Talking to him when there was no way they were going to be interrupted – at least, as long as they were discreet – had been so liberating. Luckily, neither of them had said anything which might offend the other, so their whole conversation had been very polite. Well, more than polite. It had been friendly.

It had surprised Draco even more that the whole topic of Harry's illness hadn't even been discussed. They had been so intent on making each other's motives clear, that they had completely forgotten their surroundings and why they were there in the first place. Potter had been lying in a hospital bed, but he was just as genuine and driven as Draco to point out _why_ he didn't hate him anymore.

And why was that? Potter didn't look sick anymore. In fact, he looked completely heathy, his face alight with curiosity and inquisitiveness. However grateful for that Draco might be, two days ago Potter had been close to death, according to Hermione Granger.

Even though Draco had suspected Potter to come out of it alive, Saviour that he was, he hadn't expected him to do so after one day.

But, even though his appearance told Draco Potter was fine, he was still confined to his bed. So that obviously meant that Pomfrey didn't think so at all. Why?

Draco shook his head; this whole thing was just a mystery. And he wanted to know more. Maybe he just had to go back upstairs tonight, and ask Potter himself. Obviously Potter hadn't minded talking to him. Yes, that was a great plan.

And maybe, just maybe, Draco was looking forward to seeing Harry again.

* * *

Harry had just finished his Transfigurations essay, and looked out of the window. When he saw how dark it already was, he frightened himself a bit. He hadn't realised how long it had taken just to set his mind to it, and write the damn thing. Ron and Hermione were now at dinner in the Great Hall together, and Harry didn't mind. He enjoyed being alone once in a while. Hermione was a great friend, but not so much when one was trying to finish their essay and she kept implying how it was going.

"My essay's going fine, and maybe even better if you would stop asking every minute," he had said at last, a little bit snappily, but luckily she took the hint.

So now here he was, alone, homework finished. He now also had no one to talk to. When added all together, you get boredom. Which was exactly what Harry was feeling.

An idea sprung into his mind. Firstly he dismissed it, but then the idea had already been planted, first a seed, but now growing into a big plant. A Mimbulus Mimbletonia maybe. That was beside the point anyway, Harry thought.

He eyed his trunk thoughtfully. It had been brought up here by the house elves when they heard the news of him having to stay in the infirmary for undisclosed time. His trunk also contained his invisibility cloak.

Deciding to stop procrastinating, he jumped out of bed, and quickly threw open his trunk. He fished the cloak out of it – it was lying conveniently on the very bottom of the case – and threw it over himself, concealing him in the shadow of the night.

Once he had checked Pomfrey was safely at dinner downstairs, he made his way over to the doors. Strictly, he wasn't allowed to do this. He could get into a lot of consequences for this. _Hell_, he told himself. _Am I a Gryffindor or not?_

He tenderly pulled open one of the doors, and slipped through the crack. He was outside. There was no going back now.

He shivered as he walked through the cold corridors of Hogwarts. He didn't have his pyjamas still on, but he _had_ forgotten his robe. So the only thing he was wearing now was a shirt, no tie; his trousers; his woollen socks and his glasses. He had decided not to wear his shoes; they made too much noise. He was supposed to be invisible. An invisible person didn't go around with heavy boots on that announced his presence to half the school before they even got to where they wanted to go.

The moment he reached the library, he let out a huge sigh of relief. Luckily, all the students were still at dinner, so he had encountered only two people: professor Byrne and Peeves. He was sure Peeves had been placing a dungbomb on one of the staircases, but he didn't feel very inclined to tell him off. Because an invisible person also didn't talk.

Fortunately, the main part of the library had no doors, so Harry could just walk in. He was feeling quite proud of himself, until he remembered he had no light with him. He had left his wand on his bedside table. Instead of proud he now felt amazingly moronic.

He had only done this one time before, and that had been in first year. It seemed his first year self was quite a bit smarter than him in present time, because at least Little Harry had remembered a person couldn't see when it was dark. He wanted to slap himself across the forehead, but resisted. Madam Pince was a scary woman, who had sure set some audio-triggered wards to protect her books.

He walked over to the creatures section and grinned when he saw one of the study-tables had a little candle with automatic lighter on it, not the muggle ones, but a Wizarding design. At least he had light now.

He took his cloak off and put it on the table, unfolded. Then he turned the lght on and began scanning the spines of the books.

"Animagus, Animagus transfigurations, Becoming Animagus," he whispered, and sighed. Hermione had always gotten the books; he didn't know how everything was ordered. This obviously was the Animagus section, and if he knew one thing, it was that he wasn't becoming an Animagus.

He just had to scan the whole library then.

* * *

A good twenty minutes later found Harry Potter with a stack of books on the table with the candle. He had picked ones that covered a lot of creatures, like 'All Magical Creatures That You Could Ever Dream Of', to the more specific ones, for example 'Dark Creatures and Where You Better Not Find Them'.

He looked at the Restricted Section thoughtfully. What if the information this whole trip was about, was behind those little fences? They were a clear summary of the restricted section, those barriers; they stood with high ridges and sharp points, sinister and menacing. It was probably designed that way to keep the First Years away, Harry thought bleakly.

He walked up to them and noticed the locks still hadn't changed. They were still the same as in first year: little pin locks held the entries in place. He slowly pulled one open, and jumped back when the fence jumped open, as if it was eager to get Harry inside. The doors almost seemed to have a mind of their own. The pin locks only made it worse; you could easily open them, but there was a reason there were locks in front of it. Harry wondered if Salazar Slytherin had had the fortune of decorating the library. When looking at those entrances, Harry certainly thought so.

He walked back to the table and grabbed the candle, then entered the restricted section, all the while keeping his hand in front of the flame to not let it blow out.

He began scanning the books, but didn't pick one out until he was very sure it was the book he wanted. He didn't want a repeat of First Year; he had had nightmares about that head in the book for weeks.

"Thirteenth Century Evil Wizards," he breathed, as he read the spines of the books, "Fifteenth Century Fiends, Creatures of the Night," he picked the last one, just to be sure. Even though the title sounded extremely menacing, the answer to this whole ignominy might be in it.

Eventually he ended up with three books. The first one he had picked, a tiny pocketbook called Demons and Ghosts, and a book named All Dark Creatures You Didn't Know About, And Don't Want to Know About.

He stacked all the books on one heap, picked them up, encircling his arms around them, and then fumbled with his cloak until he was sure it covered enough of him. He couldn't hold the cloak now, so he just had to be careful it didn't slip off of him.

The walk back to the infirmary was extremely awkward; he had to hold his books as secure as he could, if he let one slip he had to start all over again. But he also had to make sure the cloak stayed on, which it only did if he took very small steps. So, half eight in the evening found Harry Potter with his arms full of books, shuffling through the corridors. Invisible, of course.

It became even more of a challenge when, apparently, dinner was coming to an end, and students began to flock the staircases. He had to dodge them, but he had to be fast too. If Ron or Hermione came back before him… he would have to tell them what he was doing, and by doing so revealing his secret.

He arrived at the hospital wing ten minutes later, heavily perspiring and out of breath. He softly pulled open the door, and put just his head around the corner. No one there yet. Harry exhaled, relieved.

He stepped into the wing, and let the cloak fall off of his shoulders, first thing. The thing was light as a feather, yes, but it could still become very hot underneath.

Then he dumped his books on his bed, and looked around for a good place to hide them. There wasn't one, really.

Under the bed wasn't an option either; the bed was carried on high spines, and the sheet was carefully tucked in by house elves. The books would be obvious.

There _was_ an old potions storage where the more unused potions were placed. Not the cupboard with the Pepper-up or the Dreamless Sleep, that one was new and right next to the beds of the patients, so Pomfrey could quickly grab one if necessary. No, this one was on the other side of the infirmary, easily overseen because of its dull brown colour. Harry had only looked inside once, but he did know it was big enough to store the books, and maybe fit a person or two inside along with them.

He quickly grabbed his books again, and shoved them inside. He had only just closed the little room's door, when Ron walked in, chessboard under his arm.

"Hey Harry. What're you doing?" he asked, eyeing him doubtfully.

Harry cleared his throat. "Nothing. You know, just exploring. It gets quite boring here after a while."

Ron beamed, and looked down at his chessboard. "Oh, I know. That's why I just grabbed this from the Tower. Thought you'd like some distraction," he said cheerfully, no longer looking suspiciously at Harry. For which Harry was very grateful.

* * *

Two hours and ten games later found a tired Harry and a victorious Ron eating the last of the sweets Ron had taken with him. Harry had won only one of the games, the last one, and he suspected that was only the case because Ron had found some shred of sympathy in his tactical brain. Or maybe Ronald had found the sweets in his pocket more enticing than winning yet another time of Harry.

For all the things Harry might be, he was not a good strategist. He liked the game, yes, but he only took his pieces one set at the time; he wasn't like Ron, who could think ahead at least five steps every time it was his turn. So that often found Harry perplexed at how Ron had managed to get checkmate, seemingly without batting an eye. All Ron's pieces were just in the right place. But then again, Harry had always been the one to rush into things, not the one to make plans. His plans never worked anyway.

But he was grateful for his friend anyhow. Ron dedicated his evening to keeping him entertained, not once muttering something over how it was a Sunday night, and that he should be in Gryffindor Tower with all the others. Ron told Harry that Hermione had promised a third year to help him with his Defence homework, so that she couldn't be here right now.

Another hour later - it was now around 22:30 - Harry told Ron to go to Gryffindor Tower and sleep there, and if he saw Hermione, to tell her to do the same thing. It wasn't fair he was keeping him there. Another reason was that he really wanted to read his stolen books.

And so Harry ended up alone again. He had grabbed the first book off of the pile – All Dark Creatures You Didn't Know About, And Don't Want To Know About – and had started reading on his bed, wand alight and skimming across the pages, looking for something that at least resembled his symptoms.

After skimming through half the book, he didn't think he would find anything. He reached the chapter 'Demons, Ghosts, And Other Such Horrors', and decided this would be the last chapter for tonight.

Three quarters of the chapter farther he was ready to give up, and he didn't feel any better when he started feeling nauseous again. He hadn't seen Malfoy all day, and it seemed his body knew that too. But then, something caught his eye. One tiny paragraph. It only said: _The Phantom is born by dispelling one or two buckets of blood of the wizard and replacing it by his own, jet-black blood. Not much about the Phantom is known however, since they are very private Creatures._

Harry stared dumbly at the page. The first night he had vomited up one bucket of blood. And now his blood was mixed with tiny dark orbs, clots of black blood. It all seemed too apparent to be true. Still, this creature had the exact way of settling as he had gone through. But how could he be one? He didn't feel so much different. How could he be a Creature without knowing that he was?

He shook his head, baffled. He put down the huge tome, and went over to the storage room. He picked up the much smaller book; Demons and Ghosts. He didn't know if the Phantom was a demon or a ghost, but he was sure this book held the answers.

He leaved through it on his way back to the bed. Luckily, the book had an index. But he didn't see Phantom anywhere. Then he realised, phantom was another word for ghost, right? So, he just had to speed-read through the ghost section until he found what he was looking for.

He found it half an hour later.

_Spectres, also called Phantoms, are what Muggles just generally call ghosts. However, that isn't entirely true. Originally, they were immortal beings who could do impossible things, like pass through walls and such. They weren't ghosts, because the Creature was still alive. Even though they are immortal, they are born off a Witch or Wizard who was very much mortal and thriving. There was debate about whether the Wizard left the body or co-owns it with the Spectre._

_Nowadays, the pure Spectre blood has disappeared, leaving, in fact, only half-Spectres. Some of the characteristics have disappeared, including being immortal, though Spectres do live a much longer live than a normal Wizard. People today believe that because the Spectre blood is shared with the Wizard's, the Wizard remains in his body too, sharing it with the Spectre. It is not known how much control the Wizard or the Spectre has over the body and mind._

_Unfortunately, not much is known about Spectres or Phantoms, since they are very rare, and haven't been examined much because they are very private creatures. It isn't clear whether the Spectre is a dangerous creature or not, because their powers aren't known. Some say Spectres can soak up a Wizard's magic, but this hasn't been confirmed._

_One of the few things that is known, is that the Spectre settles in the body of the Wizard by dispelling some of the Wizard's blood and adding his own. A Wizard can only become a Spectre if one of his ancestors was one too, or reproduced with one. However, the Wizard must have a very strong magical core, and their magical powers must be remarkable, otherwise the Spectre can't settle. It will be passed on to the next generation until it finds one it deems worthy._

_The last thing that we know about them, is-_

Harry abruptly stopped reading when the hospital doors opened. He did not expect Draco Malfoy to walk in, and for a moment he just stared with his mouth open.

"Potter, please close your mouth. You'll catch flies," said Malfoy, smirking slightly.

Harry brusquely clapped his mouth shut, the resulting smack resonating slightly.

"Charming," said Malfoy, all haughty and snooty, but his stance told Harry he was not so confident at all; his shoulders were slumped, and he looked ready to turn around and run. He looked very insecure. Harry smiled at him.

"Come in, Malfoy. My humble home awaits your graceful presence," he said cheekily. Draco looked assured, and strolled further into the wing, legs moving effortlessly in an elegant stride. Harry watched with envy. How come he couldn't walk like that? Maybe you had to be tall to pull of such an impressive tread. Or maybe you needed to be a pureblood. Or maybe-

"What's that you're reading, Potter?" asked Malfoy, shaking him from his thoughts. His rather ridiculous thoughts, at that.

"Umm, just a book. You know. Pages and such," he said awkwardly as he closed the book, tucking it under his arm.

Malfoy looked at him amusingly. "You're acting weird," he said, but his eyes said he didn't mean it.

Harry smiled bashfully, and walked toward 'his' storage room to put the book back. "Yeah, well, you'd be acting weird too if you'd be confined to a bed for Merlin knows how long."

"Yeah, you could say that," Malfoy muttered, he peeked over Harry's shoulder into the little room. "What's this Potter? Please tell me this isn't your personal wank-cave, because then I might have to Obliviate myself," he said seriously, frowning and nodding to himself.

Harry blushed. "No. God Malfoy, you sure have a filthy mind."

"Why, thank you," answered Malfoy in all seriousness, and Harry could do nothing but laugh. Malfoy managed to crack a small smile.

Harry walked back to his bed, and sat down on it, legs crossed. Malfoy took the chair. "If you don't mind me asking, why did you come here? Not that I mind, I truly don't, but still…" asked Harry, realising he was rambling a bit.

Malfoy frowned. Then he opened his mouth and closed it again. Harry marvelled over the fact how much Malfoy had changed after the war. Not only mentally, but physically too. Especially his face; before, his face had always been kind of gaunt, with eyes deep in his head, almost hidden beneath his brows. They had had permanent bags under them. Well, not anymore: Malfoy's eyes were wide-open now, twinkling like Dumbledore's. He looked healthy; his face looked fuller, but still with the sharp, aristocratic bone structure. He also didn't slick back his hair anymore. It suited him much better: the hair now falling softly onto his forehead and the few strands resting on his eyebrows made his face look so much softer. He almost looked younger than he did before.

He had grown too, Harry had noticed. Not that it was necessary; Malfoy was the tallest in the school, besides Ron. But still, his height made him not lanky, like Ronald, but lean. His long legs made it look like he walked on a trampoline, instead of cold stone; he veered, looked almost ethereal at times.

The thing which surprised Harry, now that he thought about it, was the fact that Malfoy seemed to get almost no attention from girls. Even though - and it wasn't hard for Harry to admit this – Draco was probably the most attractive boy of the school, now that he had cleaned up a bit. Harry would gladly give all of his fangirls to Draco; he didn't want them. Malfoy could have them, if he so pleased.

But it had probably to do with the fact that Harry was 'The Saviour' and Malfoy… not. Harry still wasn't sure how to categorise Malfoy. Malfoy was just Malfoy. And that was that.

"I came here because I wanted answers," said Draco eventually. "And I know it isn't really my place to ask questions, but well… That night…. That wasn't just coincidence, was it? If you could tell me, and I don't blame you if you won't, I would like to hear you explain some of what is going on."

Harry nodded. "I wanted to tell you last night, but we never really broached the subject of my illness. But Draco… what I'm about to tell you… No one else knows yet, all right? I am trusting you to not tell anyone else, until I tell you that you can. Okay?"

Malfoy looked dead serious when he nodded, and Harry nodded back, calmed. "Okay. Yesterday I realised that my illness might not be just that; an illness. Suddenly, I got a flash of intelligence," he smiled a bit shyly at this, "and thought: 'what if it's not just a virus or a potion or a curse… what if this is coming from myself?' What I mean by that is, what if I had been searching in the wrong direction all the time? What if I actually were becoming a creature?"

Malfoy looked curiously at him, and nodded for Harry to go on. So he did. "I snuck into the library during dinner, and picked a few books on Magical Creatures. Anyway, some of what has happened to me over the past few days closely resembled one of the creatures described in there."

Malfoy now seemed to be brimming with excitement. "So?" he asked, "What is it? What are you?"

Harry felt a bit uncomfortable. "Well, we can't be sure, but I think I am a Spectre; a Phantom."

Malfoy lost a bit of his excitement when he obviously didn't know what creature Harry was talking about. Harry quickly repeated the most important things of the passage on Spectres from his book. Malfoy looked at him strangely.

"So you mean to tell me you are some kind of ghost? And why are you even telling me in the first place? You haven't told anyone else yet, have you?"

Harry shook his head. "I am telling you because… I fear, no, I think you might have more to do with this than we are both strictly comfortable with," he said, voice soft but clear.

Malfoy looked shocked for a brief moment, then his mask came back into place. "What do you mean, Potter? You haven't told this Spectre of yours that I'm to be your next magical meal, did you?"

Harry's eyebrows rose. "No. I don't suck magic out of other people, you know. I wouldn't even know how to do that. What the book mentions is just speculations. What I mean is; I sometimes have this extreme nausea, and I realised over the past days that when you enter the room, touch me, or are otherwise close to me, it would lessen or completely disappear. I don't know what that means, though."

Harry could see Malfoy's hackles had gone up. He knew this would happen. He knew Malfoy dealt with thing that surprised him, or otherwise overthrow him, by putting his old façade back on. He knew Malfoy didn't do it to be mean; it was his defence mechanism. "What do you mean, you don't know what it means? You don't even know yourself? I would do some more reading up on the subject, Potter, before you go and confront me with it."

Harry nodded. He wasn't surprised, but it still stung a bit to have the fragile friendship between them so easily break. "Okay. I will."

Malfoy nodded stiffly, but Harry could see he was a bit overthrown by Harry's brisk answer. Then he took for the doors.

"Draco!" Harry called, just as he was to close the door. Malfoy turned around rigidly. "Just… could you come back tomorrow night? Just for a second; so I don't fall ill again."

It took a long time before Malfoy nodded, once, and then threw the doors closed. Well, it was something. And Harry had known this wouldn't be easy. The Slytherin feared everything he didn't know, he feared not being in control, he feared not knowing something. That was exactly all that had happened that day.

Harry sighed, and returned to the little room, took his book again, and started reading where he left off. He might as well follow Draco's advice.

_The last thing that we know about them, is that Spectres are creatures with destined mates. Their partners are never other Spectres, they are always human. The partner must – just like the Spectre's human side – have a strong magical core, however, and their magical abilities must be far above average too, otherwise the Spectre will consider them unfit to be their partner. Nothing is known about the mating ritual or other things involving the mate-aspect of their lives._

Harry swallowed thickly. He had a feeling in the pit of his stomach that he knew exactly what was up with him and Malfoy now. And Malfoy wouldn't like it one bit. _  
_


	3. Chapter 5 and 6

**Chapter Five  
****Gifts**

Harry woke up the following day with a headache. It didn't feel like another symptom, he just had had a long night. A heavy cloud hung above his head; Malfoy was angry at him, but for all intends and purposes, Harry needed him. He might not like it, but the creature did. He understood that if Malfoy really didn't want to see Harry anymore, he was fucked. Fortunately, Malfoy had agreed last night to see him again. Now Harry was trusting Malfoy to hold that promise.

He was fairly sure now that he was a 'Spectre'. Even though he knew what he was now, he didn't have a clue what it meant. The books had some general characteristics listed, but all ended with the same sentence; 'we don't have more information about them, because they are very private creatures.' That didn't help Harry much. He knew he was a private creature; he hated all those girls running after him, he hated the constant flashes of cameras when he was somewhere public, he hated being scrutinised. He hated attention, generally.

Unfortunately for him, the moment he had re-entered the Wizarding world, attention had been his middle name. People wanted autographs from him, pictures with him, they wanted his side of the story, they wanted to hear about all his adventures in the war; Harry just wanted to be on the hearth in the Gryffindor common room, playing chess with Ron and talking to his friends.

And no, complete solitude wasn't his friend either. But complete solitude was exactly what he was experiencing right now. Well, not if you counted Madam Pomfrey in her office on the right side of the wing, but she only came out when there was someone who needed treatment, or if it was scheduled 'check-up-on-Harry time'.

Fortunately, there weren't much of those children who came in here for a potion or a quick healing spell from Pomfrey, but the small dozen that _had_ come in, weren't the most discreet people in the world. Harry had seen how they had tried no to look at him, but ended up staring open-mouthed at him anyway. He didn't really know why; it's not like he looked ill or something. Perhaps it was just that his name was Harry Potter, and he was confined to the hospital wing, with no one knowing exactly why.

Those that had had a lucky glimpse of him, had immediately reported back to their friends, Harry was checked up on him once every hour. She ran her basic diagnosing spells and asked him a few questions. Harry always answered, but he didn't tell her anything about what he knew. He'd tell her when the time was right. Or when Slughorn and McGonagall successfully identified the orbs in his blood. Whichever came first.

Harry looked up when the door of Pomfrey's office opened. Seemed like it was that time again. However, she didn't immediately start her scans as she normally did. Instead, she said: "I'm sorry to tell you, Mr Potter, but so far Minerva and Professor Slughorn have been ineffective in classifying the spheres in your blood. Yet, Minerva wishes to speak with you. She'll be here in half an hour, so I suggest you eat and get dressed before that time."

Harry nodded. What did Professor McGonagall want to speak with him about? Maybe she knew more than she let on. Maybe she already knew about the creature. Maybe she just wanted to console him and tell him it wouldn't be long now. If she told him the latter, Harry would know she would be lying. Why come to an ill man's bedside to pacify him, when you are close to finding the solution to why he is there in the first place?

His breakfast arrived with an overexcited house elf. When Harry took the plate from her and told her 'thank you', he was sure she was about to faint from excitement. You could S.P.E.W all you want, but those house elves sure were strange creatures.

He picked apathetically at his toast and raspberry jam. He did finish his pumpkin juice, but that was more a testimony for how good it was, than for how hungry he actually was.

He left his unfished plate on his bed and picked up his fresh clothes from the floor next to his bed. Then he went over to the wash rooms, situated right next to the nurse's office.

He showered and dressed routinely, but something caught his eye as he was brushing his teeth.

"Shit," he said softly, his reflection looking back at him, shocked.

His hair looked different. Well, not different in style; it was still the same messy, unruly hair as before, but a small streak of silver had appeared, running from his temples to behind his ears. It was decidedly noticeable: the silver contrasted quite heavily with his black hair. Harry wondered how Pomfrey hadn't noticed it. Well, maybe she _had_ noticed it, but had thought it was just some new rage under the students.

Well, it most certainly was not. Harry frowned. Yesterday it hadn't been there yet, he was sure. So it must have happened during the night. That meant he was still changing; that meant that the first day of this whole debacle had only been the beginning.

He swallowed. He had hoped this would be over now, and that he could continue with his life. But even before this hair disaster had occurred, he knew that was just wishful thinking. One didn't become a rare magical creature and not have some changes in their life. But how Harry wished that it could.

He looked at himself more closely in the mirror, trying to detect other differences in his appearance. He blinked. Then he looked again, and he was sure now: mixed with the intense emerald green was a sterling bright silver. It wasn't perceptible from a distance, but up close you could clearly see swirling bands of silver and white in his eyes.

He swallowed, Adams apple bobbing slightly. Even though he hated people saying 'oh, you look so much like your father, but with the eyes of your mother', it was still a very big part of him. His appearance was the last thing that ultimately bound him to his parents, as well as the blood running in his veins. But according to Pomfrey, that had changed too, already.

Was he just becoming a whole new person? Or were the books right, and did the Phantom take over completely, leaving nothing but an empty shell of his former self, inhabited by some creepy creature, looking like him, but leaving nil of his soul in there?

He didn't know, and he didn't really want to know. If it were, he might as well just kill himself now. That was a better option than giving his body to a creature that was listed as Dark, and that maybe sucked magic out of other people.

He groaned. Why was this happening to him? Why did he never get some rest? Why did he always have to be in mortal peril, whether by deranged Dark Lord or a Dark creature infiltrating his body?

He shook his head. No, he was just thinking in a downwards spiral. So what if his hair and eyes changed a bit? No big deal right? And so far he felt fine, no intrusive thoughts or whatever.

He walked back to his bed and pulled his trunk from its place under it. He riffled though it, searching for a thing that he hadn't worn for a long time. He let out a victorious shout when he finally found it, partly because he wasn't sure if he still had it.

He eyed the beanie hat thoughtfully. He wasn't sure when he had actually got it… oh, now that he thought about it, it had been a present from the Dursleys when he had turned fourteen. He had thrown it into his trunk, not because he actually wore it, but because it had been rather a nice gift, and he felt he had to treasure it because it would probably be the best present he'd ever get from them. It was certainly better than a paperclip, at any rate.

He pushed it down over his head. It didn't feel nice; it itched and tickled, but it would have to do. He was sure McGonagall wouldn't appreciate it either - school rules said no hats or caps - but she would certainly notice and comment on his hair if he didn't cover it up. Desperate times called for desperate measures, after all.

He sat down on his bed, wondering what time it was. Pomfrey always did her first check-up on him at nine, so McGonagall would arrive at 9:30. He cast a Tempus. The shining red letters saying 9:27 bobbed softly in the air. He sighed, he just had to wait then.

After three minutes, Harry heard the doors of the infirmary open. He looked up and found the familiar face of professor McGonagall looking back at him. He smiled at her.

She walked toward his bed, pulling her witch's hat off. Harry felt kind of embarrassed to be sitting there with a beanie bag over his head, but not embarrassed enough to pull it off, and face endless questions about his hair. McGonagall obviously knew his hair hadn't been like that before this all, for he had been in her class when it started, and it wasn't like he could've had a nice trip to the hair dresser in-between.

She stopped at the side of his bed where the chair still stood, but she didn't sit down.

"Mr Potter. First of all, I want to tell you we still aren't sure what's up with you, so don't get your hopes up," she said. Harry nodded. "I am not sure if Madam Pomfrey has already told you this but-"

"My blood contains black orbs?"

For a second she looked surprised, before she composed herself and nodded. "Indeed. We are not sure what it is. I just thought, maybe it would be prudent to inform you of how things are going."

Harry nodded again. He wasn't quite sure what to say. "Is there anything else you found?" he asked, just to make the awkward silence go away.

The Transfiguration teacher shook her head. "No. I am sorry, Mr Potter. However, I must ask you; do you have any idea what this might be? Anything at all? Someone who might have poisoned you? Has anyone been acting peculiarly toward you in the past weeks?"

Harry gulped a little. He didn't want to lie to her. He didn't. But he would. After this whole thing with Malfoy was solved, he would tell her. He would tell Pomfrey and his friends too. He would tell the whole damn world for all he cared.

But everything would be so much easier if she knew. He felt guilty when he thought about her pouring over cauldrons and casting spells over his blood, trying to figure out what it all meant. Harry already knew, and he just didn't say anything.

He swallowed.

"Mr Potter?" asked McGonagall.

He cleared his throat. "No. Nothing. Nobody," he said, but he could see McGonagall looking suspiciously at him. He had waited too long to answer. She knew he knew something now.

"Really?" she asked, her voice full of doubt.

Harry nodded. He wasn't sure if he could get out of this one.

It took a long time before McGonagall nodded back. "Okay then. We will not give up Harry, I promise that."

Harry looked up at her. He felt genuinely thankful to her that she was prepared to do so much for him, and he felt so, so bad about misleading her. "Thank you," he said quietly, and watched her leave, his head hanging low.

He felt really bad now. He was acting so selfishly, something he had never done before.

Rage filled him. Why did this have to happen to him? Why? What wrong had he ever done to deserve all this shite on his head? What god had he pissed off? He felt so angry. Angry with himself for lying to everyone, angry at Voldemort for making him 'special', angry at this creature inside him, angry at Pomfrey for letting him figure it out all on his own and especially angry at the world in general. It just wasn't fair.

"It just isn't fair!" he shouted, grabbed the stupid beanie hat on his head, and threw it with all his force to the opposite wall. It fell with a dull thud to the ground. His scalp hurt; in his anger he had pulled a few strands of hair out, but Harry didn't really feel it.

He seethed. Why did it always have to be him? Always Harry, always him who was expected to do the right thing, always him who had to save the world. Well, now he wouldn't do the right thing. He laughed cynically when he thought about how everyone would react when they found out what he was. He was a Dark Creature, for God's sake! No more perfect Harry. Maybe they would lock him up now.

In all his anger, Harry hadn't noticed his vision slowly going black around the edges. The fuming thoughts kept swirling though his mind. It wasn't until it was too late that he noticed he had become very light headed, and a softly muttered "no," didn't stop him from falling back on his bed, unconscious.

There was no one around to see a completely silver-haired Harry Potter lying lifeless on his bed. Nobody saw his hair slowly turning back to midnight black again, leaving just a little line of silver, and under closed eyelids, pure silver eyes slowly returning to emerald mixed with tiny veins of silver and white.

Nobody saw and nobody knew.

* * *

Harry woke to the sound of glass breaking. Or at least that is what it sounded like.

He cracked his eyes open, and would've smiled at what he saw, if his mouth wasn't so dry. Hermione and Ron were playing Wizard's Chess on the bed on the other side of the infirmary, and it looked like Ron had just taken Hermione's queen.

He tried to sit up, but his arms were heavy. He rustled about a bit, trying to get them situated under him, but gave up when he heard two identical shouts from Ron and Hermione. "Harry!" they both shouted, sounding both relieved and concerned at the same time.

Hermione helped him get propped up against his pillow, and Ron went and got a glass of water, which Harry gratefully sipped down.

"We were so concerned, Harry," Hermione said, sounding slightly out of breath. "Yesterday Pomfrey found you out cold on the bed-"

"Yesterday?!" Harry demanded, wincing when it hurt his throat. It was dark outside, but Harry had just assumed he had been passed out from eleven o'clock in the morning till now, but it seemed it had been longer than that.

Hermione nodded. "Yes, and don't talk so loud. As I was saying, Madam Pomfrey found you unconscious on the bed yesterday. You have been comatose for at least thirty hours now. You slept through the whole night yesterday and now it is evening again. We were really scared you weren't going to wake up; it took so long!"

Ron nodded. Then he spoke; "Yeah. And mate, wanna know the weirdest of it?" Harry wasn't sure if he would, but Ron boasted on anyway. "Last night, Malfoy suddenly showed up! He was so weird – that is, weirder than normal – but luckily he left pretty quickly. We never really found out what he was up here for anyway, but I reckon he was trying to steal potions again, and hadn't expected us to be here. He did ask if you were okay, though. It was just so strange, Harry, he just asked; 'Is Harry all right?' He said Harry, Harry! Not even Potter. Hermione doesn't know what to make of it, but I don't trust him, Harry. I wouldn't trust him if I were you."

Harry smiled a little bit. Malfoy had kept his promise then. Not only his promise about meeting with him, but also about not telling about his secret to anyone else. It seemed that once Malfoy had calmed down, he had seen how he had been acting. It sounded like Malfoy was concerned for him. Harry felt so happy at that, and he wasn't sure if it was the creature or he himself.

"Anyway," Ron just talked on, oblivious to Harry's happiness at the news that Malfoy had requested after him. "We told him to fuck off, so he left."

Harry's happiness dimmed a bit at that. "That's a bit rude, isn't it?" he asked, and Ron looked puzzled.

"Why? It's just Malfoy, mate," he said.

Harry felt the incomprehensible need to growl at Ron, but he resisted. He was a creature, not some sort of deranged animal. He took a deep breath. "Yeah, of course," he said, even though it took him great force of will to do so.

He then realised Hermione had walked across the wing and picked something up from the ground. "What's this?" she asked, holding up a strange grey object, and Harry felt fucked. It was his atrocious beanie hat that he had thrown about the room yesterday.

Harry smiled benignly. "Just a hat. You know. For on your head. It does get cold in here sometimes."

Hermione looked at him distrustfully, obviously not buying a word he said. He quailed a little; her intense stare was really uncomfortable and it put him off.

"What?" he said, rather defensively. "Am I not allowed to wear a hat anymore either?"

Hermione sighed. "Of course you are, Harry. You've just never worn this one before. I just feel like you're withholding something from us," she said, walking back toward his bed, where he was now sitting on cross-legged.

"Well, I'm not. What's to withhold?" he asked, as he looked down at his hands.

Hermione shook her head, telling him she didn't know either. Harry wanted to make a little success dance, but what happened next made his spirits damp immediately.

"Hey, Harry, what's that in your hair?" asked a completely oblivious Ron, and Harry froze.

His hair. Of-bloody-course. Why hadn't he thought about that? There was a reason he had worn that hat! He felt so stupid. Now he had no other choice than to tell them. There was no other way.

Although, he would leave out the whole Malfoy thing.

He grabbed at his head, trying to cover up as much as possible. "Um. Why? What's with it?" he asked, hands flat on his skull.

Ron shrugged. "It looks like you dyed it. You didn't have that before, did you?"

Harry needn't ask what Ron meant with 'before'. "Um… no, I guess."

Hermione chose that moment to sigh heavily, and pried his unwilling hands from his head. She gasped when she saw what he had been hiding under it. "Harry! When did that happen! I knew you were hiding something!"

Harry scowled. "I wasn't hiding it. It was there in plain view, you just didn't notice until now," he said snidely, and knew he had been a little harsh when he saw Hermione's astonished face, but he didn't say sorry.

It seemed that changes besides physical ones had already taken place. With just the slightest insinuation, the slightest allusion, he'd become so angry. Like just now, but also when Ron had been talking about Malfoy. Bur Ron had no right to talk about Draco like that!

He shook his head at his own thoughts. Those feelings just slithered into his brain, sounding like him, but he didn't_ want_ to think it. The creature was penetrating his emotions now too, it seemed, not just his exterior. How far would I go? When would it stop? That was the question, wasn't it?

"So, what is it? Did you do it yourself?" Hermione asked.

Harry shook his head. He'd tell them. It was better that way. "No. Or maybe I did, I don't know. I'm going to tell you something, and I suggest you sit down. It might take a while."

Hermione nodded seriously and sat down on the side of his bed. Ron took the chair. Harry took a deep breath before he began to speak, voice soft but it didn't matter; you could hear a pin drop in the deserted infirmary.

* * *

"-I went to the bathroom and noticed my hair and eyes," he was saying.

"Your eyes? Have they changed too?" Hermione asked, already hanging forward, trying to take a look at them, but Ron shushed her, and motioned for Harry to go on.

"And I had a meeting with McGonagall – who would surely notice it – so I put that hat on. After the meeting I felt kind of guilty and angry at myself for lying to her, but it was a different sort of anger," he said, trying to analyse what he had been feeling at the time. "I didn't feel like myself. I would never lose control like that. I don't know whether to see the Spectre as a whole different creature, inhabiting my body, or see it as an addition to myself. But I guess the new me _does_ lose control like that. Anyway, it only got worse until I at one point just passed out. And now we are here."

Hermione nodded. Ron looked to be still trying to take it all in. Perhaps it had been a little bit too much for him.

"Well, Harry, sorry to disappoint you, but I've never heard of Spectre or Phantom before," Hermione said apologetically.

Harry nodded. "That's all right. I didn't expect you to."

"I am glad you told us, Harry, but you could've told us so much sooner, too! You didn't seriously think we would judge you, did you? We never keep secrets from each other, do we?"

Harry opened his mouth to respond, but he never got the chance to.

They all startled when Pomfrey's door opened. Harry quickly grabbed his hat out of Hermione's hands, and threw it over his head. He didn't want to explain another time. Perhaps Hermione would be so generous as to tell Pomfrey the whole story again.

"Mr Potter!" she screeched. "You're awake already! Why didn't anyone of you alert me?" she asked angrily, and Hermione swallowed visibly.

"Well-" she began, but the nurse obviously didn't have the patience to wait.

"Never mind, never mind! I need to know what happened to you, Mr Potter," she said, as she walked his way. "What in Merlin's name occurred to you? One moment you were fine; I come back an hour later, and you're lying comatose on your bed! I almost had a heart attack, young man!"

Harry blushed. It did sound rather stupid, now that he thought about it. "I don't know. Well, I do, but I don't want to talk about it," he said, while looking pleadingly at Hermione. She nodded.

"Madam Pomfrey, Harry believes he might have found the solution to his illness," she said, and Harry was grateful to hear that she made it sound as if he had just found out, not three days ago. "But I believe he is rather tired. Perhaps we could inform you while Harry takes a quick nap?"

Pomfrey looked from Hermione to Harry and seemed to come to a conclusion. "Very well. Miss Granger, Weasley, to my office. Potter, you need to rest. You look peaky."

Harry nodded. He was beginning to feel quite nauseous again. It seemed 24 hours was just a bit too long to be away from Malfoy. But it wasn't like he could force him to come earlier. He was damn lucky Malfoy had still come to him, after the way he had surprised him.

He lay back down in his bed, drawing his covers over him. He was asleep within seconds.

* * *

He was roused by a rough prodding in his shoulder.

"Potter?" said a very familiar voice. "Are you awake?"

Harry wasn't at first, but when he recognised who was speaking to him, he certainly was. He bolted upright, causing a myriad of colours to dance in front of his eyes for a few seconds.

He looked at Malfoy. "Yeah. Yeah, I am. I didn't think you would come, actually."

Malfoy smiled sheepishly. "Yeah, well, I did make a promise. And I know you'd fall ill if I didn't. I may sometimes be unkind to you, but never that much."

Harry nodded, and looked around. Hermione and Ron weren't here. They had probably left for Gryffindor Tower once they'd explained everything to Pomfrey.

"Yeah," said Malfoy, seemingly guessing what Harry was thinking about. "Don't get me wrong, but if your friends would still be here, I probably never would've come in. I don't know if they have told you about last night – but knowing Weasel he probably ranted about it first thing – but it was atrociously awkward in here."

Harry laughed. "I can imagine that. You didn't tell them anything, did you?"

"No. Can you imagine? And, once again, I promised you not to tell anyone until you gave me permission. I intend to hold that promise. If nothing else, just to even out the stakes. Nevertheless, what was up with you? Why were you unconscious on that bed?"

Harry sighed. "I honestly don't know. Something to do with the whole Spectre thing, I guess."

Malfoy nodded, accepting that was the only explanation Harry was going to give. Then he gestured at Harry's beanie. "Why are you wearing that appalling thing?"

Harry blushed. He had fallen asleep in the hat, ostensibly. He pulled the hat off, and motioned at the silver lines in his hair. "That's why."

Malfoy whistled through his teeth. "Looks wicked. Not really my taste though. But I have to say, it contrasts quite strikingly with your hair."

Harry grinned. "Thanks. That's the first time it's ever been revered to as 'wicked'."

"Well, it is," said Malfoy, leaning forward to get a better look at his hair.

Harry looked at him. Malfoy's walls were down. His mask was off, the façade forgotten. He looked so much younger and so much more vibrant when he did. But it also made Harry nervous. One wrong comment and he'd close off again. One wrong comment, and the beautiful man would turn into an ice-cold shell of himself, emotions buried and forgotten. Harry didn't want that. But he did want to tell Malfoy about what he had found out. He did want Malfoy to know this was something he _needed_, he needed it as much as he needed air. But he knew that once he would tell him, Malfoy would close again. Then Draco would become Malfoy, Death-Eater-Son and traitor of the enemy again.

But what was most likely to happen was that Malfoy didn't want to be his 'mate' at all, very probably wasn't even into guys. He would be disgusted with Harry, revolted by him and the knowledge Harry saw in him more than just a friend. Harry didn't know if he could take that loss.

Then again the logic assumption would be not to tell him. But how could he live his whole life with Malfoy visiting him every night, but never knowing truly why? Never knowing what exactly Harry wanted and needed from him?

_But,_ Harry thought, _Draco is a smart bloke_. He surely would have understood by now that this involved him directly. It wasn't just some coincidence that Harry needed to see him every night, that he was the only one that could help him. Surely Draco would have connected those dots by now.

If he had, that probably meant he didn't mind. Because he had shown up here tonight, hadn't he? That had to count for something, right?

Or maybe he thought Harry didn't know yet.

Maybe it would be best just to tell him. "Hey, Draco?" he said haltingly, and Malfoy looked at him inquisitorially.

"That's my name," he just said, and Harry grinned a little at him.

"You know how you need to show up every night to not have me fall ill again?" Harry said, skirting around the subject. But maybe that would be best; maybe Draco would keep from bolting if he broke it gently.

Draco just nodded.

"Well, that can't really be coincidence now, can it? Have you ever thought about it?"

Draco looked at him, some of his mask slipping back on, but not all. "Of course I have thought about it. I don't do this just because I think you're some charity case or something. But there is so much about you and the creature that I don't know about. I don't know how to make sense of it all."

Harry took a deep breath. "Well, I think I may have the solution. Just, promise me you won't run, or get angry with me, all right? This isn't my fault, just as it isn't yours."

It took a few moments before Draco nodded. "Okay. But you make me kind of apprehensive, Potter. Just spit it out, will you?"

"Okay," Harry said, looking Draco in the eye, trying to detect some emotion there, but it seemed the mask had been put back on, his eyes betraying nothing; they were just dull grey balls, staring monotonously back at him. "I… read this book, and there was a bit about Spectres in there. It actually has quite a bit of useful information in there. However, it wasn't until I was at the last paragraph that the explanation appeared… sorry, but I think there's really no way to break this gently: you're my mate."

Yeah, Harry just wasn't the most subtle of beings. Some things just needed to be said, this one very much one of those things.

A few minutes long there was complete silence in the wing. Harry felt extremely uncomfortable. He really had no idea what to say. What did you say to a man you had practically just forced to spend your life with? He wondered if he had made the wrong choice in telling Draco.

"Draco?" he inquired softly, after the silence became too oppressive. "I'm sorry, but there was really no way to phrase it differently. I understand completely if you just walk away and never speak to me again, I really do, and I won't blame you."

"And what will happen if I do?" asked Draco, the first words uttered from his mouth.

Harry looked down at his hands. "I guess I would die," he said quietly.

It sure sounded as if Draco thought that option was the best. Harry hoped with all his might that he didn't, that he'd just imagined Draco's voice.

"Then I won't do that," came the resolute voice from the left side of his hospital bed. Harry looked up, hope settling in his heart. He didn't allow it to grow, however; Draco Malfoy was a very unpredictable person. "Harry you need to understand; this is quite a big deal for me. I can't just say yes. I just… I'll come back tomorrow night, okay? I need to think about this. Alone."

Harry nodded, understanding completely. Before Draco could leave however, he thought about something. "Wait a second. I'll just get those books. So you won't be completely in the dark anymore," he said while slipping out of the bed and walking over to the storage room.

He returned with the books he knew mentioned Spectres. He handed them over to him, and when their hands touched, a most delicious thrill ran through Harry's body.

He frowned as he watched Draco leave. That had certainly not felt like normal butterflies. That had been something far more intense.

Harry felt so much in the dark. He knew nothing about himself. Nothing. He didn't know anything about Spectres at all. He just wanted some information. But no information was there; the books were very on-the-surface.

He just wished Dumbledore was still alive; he surely would have had all the answers.

* * *

****

**Chapter Six**  
**Exposés and Realisations**

The next day was spent in chaos. Harry had been questioned and prodded so many times that somewhere along the line, he just gave up and kept sitting still in his bed responding dully to questions and not reacting when someone wanted to touch and examine him again.

Pomfrey, McGonagall and Slughorn had all been out and about the hospital since the moment Harry's friends had told Pomfrey the truth. At first, McGonagall had been angry when she realised Harry had lied to her, but when she saw how guilty he was feeling, she quickly forgave him.

Slughorn didn't really say much; he was ultimately interested in the creature. The moment the word 'rare' reached his ears, he had walked up to Harry, asking if he could have blood samples of him and the like.

Fortunately, nobody had reacted negatively. Harry had been fearing they would; however much he might seem in control, he was still a Dark creature. Sure, there had been some shock at first, but they all accepted the news, and didn't treat him any differently. Much.

There had been a moment though, when Harry had surprised himself. And not in a good way. Ron had been telling about the Slytherin Quidditch team, when that subject somehow changed to Draco Malfoy. A few comments about 'that great prick' and 'worst bloody seeker I have ever seen' and most of all 'he just shouldn't have come back this year at all, we're all better off without him', were all it took.

"Shut your mouth, Ron," Harry had growled, voice very deep and not like his normal tone at all, and to his absolute horror, fangs had descended into his mouth. He'd quickly covered his mouth, hand flat over his nose and eyes wide.

Ron hadn't understood what had been going on ("Harry, why are you covering your mouth? Are you going to be sick? What's with your hair?"), but Hermione – bless her – obviously did, as she shooed Ronald away, and talked about how much of a great pillock he was until Harry felt his fangs retract, anger gone, replaced by gratitude.

Harry hadn't known he had fangs, so it took quite a while to get over that shock. Only after they were gone had Hermione told that his hair had been almost completely silver, and his eyes had visibly changed too. Harry hadn't quite known how to react, so he chose not to react at all.

He knew that such a response worried Hermione, but it just was so much to take in. No, scratch that, it was _too_ much to take in. How can they expect an 18-year-old boy to just accept his whole life had changed and merrily carry on? That had to be impossible, wasn't it?

How did one continue living when they were just told they will never be the same again? Did you just say 'okay' and go on? Some people would cry, Harry knew that, but he never cried anymore these days. He felt he had cried so much in 7th year – he hadn't managed to keep it dry on one funeral at all – he suspected he had used all his tears already. And even if such a thing wasn't possible; what can you do? Crying won't help, will it?

Hermione would say that it certainly could, that it helped with the psychological side, of accepting it all, but Harry didn't think so.

Besides, Harry couldn't go on with his 'normal' life anyway, because Pomfrey still wanted to keep him in the wing. For observation, she had said, but Harry knew that wasn't all of it. He knew they couldn't just let a Dark creature into a school, and even better; a Dark creature they knew nothing about.

Neither McGonagall nor Slughorn knew more about the Spectre than Harry did. They had heard about it, but other than that not much. They told him Harry was the first Spectre in Britain in over three centuries. Although, Harry knew they meant _enumerated_ Spectres; there had to be more of them, but they were so reclusive and solitary.

It was around three o'clock now and Harry was bored. Hermione and Ron were in class, so Harry didn't have anyone to play chess or Exploding Snap with. Apparently the prodding and questioning was over too, because it had been a while since he'd seen anyone.

The hospital wing was a pretty bleak place, now that he thought about it. Everything was symmetrical. The beds were boring, only a flimsy blanket covering them. The infirmary smelled like chemicals and potions. It was even bleaker now that Harry had given his books to Draco; he had nothing to read either.

Well, he did; the books that didn't mention Spectres or Phantoms. But he didn't really see the point in reading those.

Yet, after another fifteen minutes of doing nothing and staring at a greenish-white wall, Harry gave up. He walked over to the storage room and picked the heavy book called 'All Magical Creatures That You Could Ever Dream Of'. Harry frowned. The Spectre was a magical creature, right? But just because it was Dark, it wasn't itemised in the book? That seemed like some sort of discrimination.

He sighed as he walked back to his bed with the book. If this Spectre-condition really was permanent, he was going to have to live with discrimination his whole life. Sure, being Harry Potter would certainly lessen it a bit, but still… If – no, _when_ \- word came out of his new blood status, the Magical world would have an opinion on it. Mothers wouldn't feel save to have him around their children anymore, for example. And Harry understood that, he really did, but that didn't meant it didn't still hurt. He understood that the minority and the dangerous were often shunned. _He_ wouldn't let his figurative child around a Dark creature he knew nothing about.

But this just made him realise how much Magical Creatures were misinterpreted. In fact, now that he thought about it, Hagrid had made that statement a long time ago: _seriously misunderstood creatures, dragons are._ But before, Harry had never been in close contact with creatures; he never personally knew one. And to his defence, the dragon _had_ tried to kill him. But now that he actually was one himself, he knew how wrong he had been. They weren't just mindless animals; even the dragon had just been trying to defend her egg, much like the way Harry defends Draco, anytime that subject comes up.

And then there was that vampire Slughorn had brought to his party. At the time, Harry had seen how pained the vampire had looked, and he had been off quickly, afraid it was going to lose control. But now he knew that even though the vampire had been surrounded by his meal – it was like being in a room full of free cupcakes – he had been polite and had been trying so very hard to be _normal_.

And this was what made Harry so angry. Being normal was the standard. Once you fell out of the league, you were spurned. Harry knew this was just the way humans were: fear the unknown. Even the outsiders tried to be normal, also if that was at cost of their own comfort and safety. The vampire had looked like he hadn't wanted to be there, yet he had, because he had wanted to appear ordinary.

Harry opened his book. He flicked through it, trying to find some interesting creatures. He stopped to read the page on vampires, but after having covered it in first, second and third year, there wasn't much new information.

Harry snickered when he remembered the bet Seamus used to have on Snape being a vampire. Eventually, he believed, the stakes had been fifty-fifty. Although, after Seamus had betted Flitwick, it had been banned. Evidently, betting was not allowed in Hogwarts.

He shook his head sadly. Those days had been so peaceful. Voldemort hadn't even been truly alive those years. He had thought _this_ year was going to be the most peaceful yet, but it seemed fate was a fickle mistress. Or maybe the devil just thought he was its knick-knack.

He stopped to read the page on banshees. He'd never seen one – except for Seamus's boggart in third year, of course – but he understood they were quite terrifying. He almost let out a yelp when he flipped to the next page; a huge drawing of a banshee – skeleton-like, greenish skin and long black hair – was staring back at him. Yeah, he understood very clearly why they were Seamus' greatest fear.

But it was the next page that got his attention. It was a page on ghosts in general, but the very last paragraph got his heart thudding a beat faster.

_Spectres and Phantoms are also considered ghosts, yet they are more like vampires. Their hair colour, skin tone, and eyes change to white or silver when they sense strong emotions, or if their mate is in direct danger. This is the reason why they are catalogued as ghosts. Nevertheless, their fangs make them more vampire-like, especially because they are alive – albeit they do live longer than the average Wizard - not dead like a ghost. They feel strong protectiveness over their mate; some even have a mental link with them. It is advised not to approach the Spectre nor the mate. Not much specifications are known, but what we do know is that they can draw magic out of wizards or witches. This has been witnessed a couple of times when a Spectre or its mate had been threatened. This creature is Dark._

Harry blinked. They made him sound as if he was some sort of disturbed beast. Unapproachable. So far he had been on his best behaviour, hadn't he? But Harry knew the transformation wasn't over yet. Maybe he'd completely lose his mind in the end. Who knew?

He absentmindedly ran his fingers along the white streaks in his hair. Were those permanent? They had been there since he'd found out about them, so it seemed like they were. When he'd come back into the real world and word hadn't yet spread about him, those would be clearly the most obvious sing of his change. He didn't know if the infamous grapevine of Hogwarts had already taken notice of his changed blood status. Maybe it would be better not to think about that yet.

He was a creature now. No longer a half-blood. In the eyes of the pureblood he would be less than a Muggleborn right now. Or maybe Dark creatures were even less than squibs. After all, everything that posed a thread for them had to be exterminated. _  
_  
Maybe that was what withheld Draco most of all. Of course, his being Harry Potter didn't help things either, but Draco was still a pureblood. If he went with a less-than-pureblood, he would be seen as a blood traitor. Even though the war was over, those standards still prevailed. Old traditions and procedures were still very much in place. But it _did_ help Malfoy's father was locked in prison. At least he didn't have to worry about that man anymore.

Draco's mother lived in the Manor, alone. Well, not truly alone if you counted around three hundred House Elves. But other than that, Harry thought it had to be a pretty bleak existence.

He turned back to his little paragraph. _Some even have a mental link with them_. That sounded promising. What kind of mental link did they mean? Telepathic? Emotional?

Whatever it was, Harry wasn't sure he wanted a mental link with Draco yet. Although, it could help if you wanted to have private conversations any time of the day. He could have his longer-for seclusion with Draco he so much wanted.

He sighed, then began flicking through the book again. At least he had distracted himself for a while.

* * *

Draco found himself in Potions class, inexplicably distracted. Potions class was usually fun, given the fact that he was extremely good at it, but this time he just couldn't seem to make it work. His thoughts kept dawdling, never focussing on what he actually should be doing.

_It would be so much better if Snape was still around_. Of course, Slughorn wasn't a bad Potions teacher, but the man just didn't possess the subtle art of complete humiliation of other students. And with other students, he meant not-Slytherin. But no, Slughorn was friendly to everyone, didn't have a poker face like Snape had had. Snape could silence the whole class with one look, he could grin without moving a muscle and he could intimidate someone to the point where they wet their trousers just by gazing at them.

Slughorn on the other hand… well, let's just say he added to the saying that used to go around; 'big people are the happiest'. He had trouble getting through the small gaps between the tables and his exuberant personality didn't help with that. He'd stop at every table to say something to a student, booming and clapping his hands on his appallingly vast stomach.

"And, Mr Malfoy," speak of the devil. The man stood before him, hands clasped over his huge belly. Draco fumed. He still hadn't managed to get Slughorn to call him by his given name; he knew Slughorn only called his favourites by their Christian name – and in Potter's case a 'my boy' was added to it. "How is your potion? Hm," he said as he looked into Draco's cauldron. "Mind somewhere else, young man?"  
_  
_Draco nodded and muttered softly, "You could say that."

Slughorn smiled at him, his yellow and crooked teeth a somewhat horrifying sight. Draco looked away, his long hair falling into his eyes. He brushed it away.

"Well, Mr Malfoy, because you are always such a dedicated student, I will forgive you this time. No marks for this one, then."

Draco nodded, relieved. If he had got a mark for this one, it would have been a T. Then his perfect O in Potions would've been spoilt, and that was not his idea for a good time.

Now that he didn't have to focus on his potion anymore, his mind wandered. Eventually, as it often did, it ended up at Potter.

Potter. Potter was a creature, and apparently, Draco was his mate. That sounded like a very bad joke and if he hadn't known Potter didn't possess a poker-face, he would never have believed him either. But it seemed it was the irreversible and unexplainable truth. How? How did _he_, Draco Malfoy, end up with Harry Potter? This had to be some cosmic witticism, right?

And maybe it was, but that didn't change the facts. Potter was a creature – a _Dark_ creature – and this creature that was inside Potter, or _was_ Potter, had chosen him as its mate. Oh Merlin, it sounded more ridiculous every time he thought about it. But he couldn't keep seeing it as some sort of pun; he'd agreed to meet with Potter tonight, and he needed to have an answer for him by then.

So yes, Draco was slightly into boys, and Potter was a boy. Potter wasn't a bad looking boy either. That made matters marginally easier, yet it didn't make the problem disappear. It wasn't like he was hooking up with just Potter; he was hooking up with the creature as well. And that meant that if he agreed, he was its/his mate and Draco knew you couldn't just say 'oh well, that was that. I'm going now, see you around.' Creature bonds were for life. Often, the creature and the mate would both die were they split apart by either their own choice or someone else's.

Draco knew his mother wanted him to marry a nice pureblood girl. If he was gay, that was one thing; he could still marry a pureblood man. But to consort with a creature? Those things were considered to be in the same league as Squibs.

However, this creature was Harry Potter. He wouldn't be shunned like anyone else would. People would be shocked at first, yes, but the Saviour would always come out on top. Everyone already thought he was some sort of god, this wouldn't suddenly abolish that belief.

So then, what withheld him? The reaction from his friends? If there were people that reacted negatively to him and Potter being together, he would instantly know who his _real_ friends were, and who had just been pretending, trying to stay in his good graces.

In a way, Potter was the perfect partner. They were to some extent a perfect antithesis of each other, but they were also so much alike. Both young boys had been thrust into their tasks not by their own will, both leaders of their houses, both had been too young to be carrying the weight of the duties set upon them. In a way, he was the one that knew Potter best, sympathising with him like others could not.

Maybe he should just say yes to Potter. Then Potter would be happy, he, Draco, would have a date and the world could all suck their own dicks.

Pansy nudged him. Class was over and he hadn't even noticed. One thing Potter was good at was distracting him, even when the man wasn't materially present, that was for sure.

He packed his things. Then he made up his mind.

Tonight, he would go to Potter, and tell him everything that he had just thought. Well, except perhaps for the whole world to do the nasty to themselves. That was not suitable date-talk.

* * *

Evening brought into being a jittery Draco Malfoy before the doors of the hospital wing. He'd been standing here for the past seven minutes, thinking everything over.

He slapped his forehead. He was acting as if this was a date with the Minister for Magic. Potter was just that: Potter. Just another boy in this school, nothing remarkable about him. Except that he had saved the entire world from its horrific demise.

Draco swallowed. Okay then, time to hold true to his promise.

He opened the door, peeking his head through the crack, looking for any sign of Harry's friends. Thankfully, they weren't there. Potter was, however. He seemed to be engrossed in a thick book, brow furrowed and eyes speeding across the page.

Draco studied him for a second. His silver line hadn't gone away. It was probably permanent then. Draco found that he didn't mind; he thought it looked rather terrific on Harry. More devil may care, this way.

He walked into the wing. Harry smiled when he finally noticed Draco had come in, immediately closing the book and putting it on the nightstand.

"I didn't realise it was that time already," he said. Draco wondered what time he meant. Daily-Draco time, perhaps? "I started reading in the afternoon because I was bored. I never noticed it got so dark."

Draco shrugged. Potter's talking didn't seem forced or just small talk, but he could see a flicker or nervousness in Potter's eyes. That was understandable; Draco was about to tell him if he was either going to be his mate, or forsake him to eventual death. "Well, it's only about half twelve. It's not that late."

"Still," was the only thing Harry said.

Draco nodded. He sat down on the chair, not comfortable enough yet to sit on Harry's bed. Harry had his legs folded beneath him, consequently making himself a lot bigger than Draco, whose chair was closer to the ground than the bed was. Draco felt a bit daunted. Harry had his hands folded in his lap, but they were not lying still; they were playing with an invisible strand, closing around themselves and pulling delicately on nothing.

Draco raised his head and looked at Potter's face. It looked almost pained, wanting to hear what Draco had to say, but at the same time terrified of what he was about to hear.

"So," he said. "I realise I have to make the opening gamble, but however much confident I may look, I'm not a spokesperson by heart," he said, deciding to open up – if he was going to go through with this thing, he might have to get used to opening up to Potter – but still sounding distant and unconcerned. "But Potter, just to get that annoying look off of your face, I'm not going to say 'no'."

Harry's face lighted up, making Draco want to grin. However, he wasn't finished yet.

"I'm not saying a full-mouthed 'yes' either, though," he said, and watched Potter's face become aloof again. It was not pretty on him. He also noticed the thin line of silver hair widening slightly, becoming about half an inch wider than before. It wasn't like he grew _more_ hair; the black hairs around the line just converted into white, like paint dancing in water. "What I mean is, this is quite new to me. It also isn't how I considered my first real relationship to go, actually. I'm not saying this is your fault, or anything, but you have to realise I don't really have much choice in the matter – whether I want this or not."

Harry nodded quickly. "Of course I realise that. I'm not stupid. And I might be a creature, a Dark creature at that, but that doesn't mean I have no conscience. I realise you were kind of forced into this, of course I do, but Draco… I'm a creature that needs a mate. I don't know whether you know what that means, but let me tell you, the urge to get you is almost uncontrollable. All my instincts tell me just to claim you. It is worse when you are actually here, not half a school away. I told you almost as soon as I knew you were my mate. Partly because I just couldn't _not_ tell you, but also because I think you deserve the truth. What you do with that truth is yours to decide."

Draco nodded. _This is Potter at his most eloquent_, Draco thought, _gotta make it happen now_. "I know. But you know I won't just let you die here. I'd help you, even if I didn't like guys."

"Do you, though?"

"What?" Draco asked, puzzled.

"Like guys."

He looked at the Gryffindor for a second, before a smile flitted over his face. "Harry. Do you really think I would be so forthcoming towards you if I didn't?"

Harry just shrugged. "I'm not an expert on this sort of thing, you know."

"And you better not be, or I might get jealous," Draco answered, voice light. He'd meant it as a joke, but it had come out rather truthfully, actually.

Harry grinned at him. "You do know how to please your creature."

Draco laughed and it wasn't long before Harry was snickering along. It was completely mental, of course, but it felt good. It felt right.

After a few minutes Draco continued however, and some of the bright mood fell away, seeping between the hospital wing's tiles. "I'm not just going to jump in bed with you or kiss you, or something. I want to treat this as a proper relationship; we date and we find out if we like each other or not. Nevertheless, I'm accepting the responsibilities of being the mate of a Dark creature. I want to help you, Harry."

For a second it looked as if Potter was going to cry, out of happiness or sadness, Draco didn't know. Auspiciously, that didn't happen, for which Draco was grateful; he was no good with emotions and couldn't console someone for the life of him.

Instead, the next thing Harry said was something he had not expected at all: "So, what's your favourite colour?"

Draco wondered if Potter had lost his mind. Or the _last_ bit of his mind, the rest he had lost before all this anyway. "What?" he asked dumbly, and he took a moment to shake himself. Malfoys didn't react in one-syllable words.

"Well, you want to get to know me better, don't you? Let's start now, it's as best a time as ever," he said, smirking slightly. He looked rather evil. Draco liked it.

"Um, okay. My favourite colour is… teal, I think," he said, logic of this evading him. Perhaps it was a Muggle thing.

Harry nodded. "Okay. Mine's crimson, I guess."

Draco shook his head, mockingly sad. "That was so expected, Potter. Really, do you have no originality at all?"

Harry smiled. "Who knows? Perhaps not. Yet, expect the unexpected, Draco. You have no idea what hides behind this skull."

Draco grinned. Potter was actually quite random. "I'd say you need to turn that phrase to unexpect the expected. I just won't expect anything from you, and so you'll surprise me one day."

Harry laughed and the silver band in his hair grew even wider. Draco noticed his eyes gleamed more than before too. He leaned forward, trying to look at Harry's eyes. What he saw startled him a bit.

"What?" asked Harry.

"Your eyes… it's beautiful, actually," he said, and he blushed a bit when his brain caught up with his words. He quickly added: "Did you know your hair changes colour? Why does it do that?"

Harry looked at him piercingly, but obviously decided to let the former statement go. "The book says it changes colour when I encounter particularly strong emotions. Like happiness or anger, I guess."

"And you aren't angry at me, are you?"

Harry shook his head.

"Then I feel very honoured to have made you happy. Now then, Potter, what's your favourite food?"

Harry laughed. "Steak and kidney pudding and treacle tart as dessert."

"Okay, mine's tomato soup."

"That's not really food, is it?"

It was going to be a long night.

* * *

When Harry woke up he felt good. This was quite a feat for him. He did sometimes feel all right when he woke up – which is to say, not like he was about to puke – but this time he felt _good_.

He sat up and startled a little when he noticed he wasn't alone. Draco Malfoy was sleeping in a chair next to him, his arms folded under his head, resting them on Harry's hospital bed. His arms looked like they were on the verge to fall down, thus making Draco fall too, but Harry didn't dare move him further onto the bed.

He looked so peaceful. Harry couldn't see his eyes because Draco's fringe had fallen over them, but the steady deep breathing told him enough. Malfoy was well and truly asleep. He'd never seen Malfoy asleep before. It was quite a sight. Somehow, the regal-looking aristocratic man was reduced to a normal somnolent boy, tired after having been up for too long.

They'd talked about the most inane things into the wee hours of the night and Harry couldn't be happier about that. His hair was probably about fifty percent silver right now, but he didn't care, really.

He did care about the time, however. If it was already nine o'clock, he'd have to wake Draco, otherwise Pomfrey would find them like this. That wasn't his idea of a fun time.

He reached for his wand, checking all the time if Draco wasn't waking up yet. He cast a tempus. The floating letters said 8:47. They still had some time then.

He'd just began to rouse Draco some thirty minutes later, when the doors opened rather austerely. Luckily, the sound caused Draco to wake up too, who found his bearings in a second. He quickly looked around.

He seemed to come to a decision as he quickly walked over to the potions cabinet, rifling through them as though he was looking for something.

The doors opened completely, showing Ron and Hermione, both carrying something in their arms.

They walked toward his bed. "Hey Harry, we decided to get you some food from the Great Hall," Ron said, and Harry waited for the inevitable. "Because the food here is just- What is he doing here?!"

Harry wanted to cover his ears, but resisted. A roaring Ronald was loud, though. "He just came in here for potions. That's allowed, right?"

Ron shook his head. "Nu-uh! No, I'll tell Pomfrey, Malfoy! You're stealing again."

Draco walked over to them with in his hands two bottles of Pepper-up. He sniffled, just for good measure. "I'm ill, Weasley. Pomfrey isn't up yet. Upper years are allowed to get their own mild potions, if the patron isn't present. Which she isn't. I'm doing nothing illegal here."

Harry looked at Ron and Draco. Then he looked at Hermione. So far she hadn't uttered a sound, which worried Harry. If she did get the situation for what it was, then he was fucked. And Draco too. Maybe she was just over-analysing, Harry didn't know. He just thanked Merlin Draco was such a good liar.

"Okay then," said Draco airily. "If you don't mind, I'll be going now."

He stalked away and Harry watched him go. Just as he turned around to close the doors, Draco mouthed something after making sure Ron and Hermione weren't looking.

_Tonight_.

Harry grinned.


	4. Chapter 7 and 8

**Chapter Seven**  
**Nightmares**

"I don't care, Ron! Geesh, just shut up, will you?!"

Harry breathed heavily through his nose. His hair was silver, just like his eyes. He growled deeply in his throat, fangs poking lightly in his bottom lip.

Ron began backing away, eyes wide open in fear. He looked like he was confronting Death himself, not Harry.

But Harry wasn't _just_ Harry right now. He was a creature, too. Harry was angry, and so was the creature. Or was it the other way around?

Harry didn't care. He didn't even know what had got him into this state. Nowadays, it only took a little prodding to get him livid. Something Ronald hadn't fully realised yet. He'd probably said something he hadn't thought through and now here they were. 'Here' being a terrified Ron and an incensed Harry Potter/Spectre with a pleading Hermione next to Ron.

"Please, Harry, Ron didn't mean it like that!" she said, trying to sound convincing, but sounding just as fearful as Ron looked.

Harry growled and then he fell silent. The whole wing fell silent. He smirked, the leer dancing slowly across his face. He looked wicked. He began gathering his magic, seeking for the other two sources. He grinned once he found them.

He latched onto the magic. Then he did what he had wanted to do this whole time; he pulled at the magic. It didn't give at first, but after a harder pull it began a steady flow of magic between him and his victims. His smirk grew bigger.

"Harry, please, don't!" shouted a desperate Hermione, but it was already too late. She fell to her knees and Harry didn't stop. In fact, he felt more encouraged than ever.

"Harry! _Harry_!" he didn't know who was shouting. His victims were close to death, lying unconscious on the floor. Who was yelling at him, then?

"Harry Potter! You wake up _now_, or I swear, I will pour that glass of water all over you!"

With a great gasp, Harry pulled himself from his dream. He felt disoriented at first. He breathed in deeply, but it didn't help; he still felt hyperventilation coming on. His hair was one great mess, probably from turning about in his bed. He felt achy, sore in his muscles. He felt kind of hungover.

That dream had been far too vivid anyway. Was it normal to feel that sorts of emotion when you were actually lying insentient on your bed? Surely not. That had been the first time a dream of Harry's had ever been that intense, excluding Voldemort's visions, of course. But then, those weren't really dreams, were they? So what had this been? It couldn't be a vision, it wasn't happening, was it? Harry hoped to all the gods that he hadn't suddenly developed the gift of Seeing, and that this dream wasn't actually going to happen soon. Well, it wouldn't anyway, whether it was or not; he would take care of that. He was not going to lose his conscious to this creature.

He tried to regulate his breathing as he took in his surroundings. Hermione and Ron were standing on one side of the bed, worry sketched visibly all over their faces. On the other side stood Pomfrey, face not so worried as his friends', but alarmed all the same.

"I had a dream," he said, panting slightly still. "Just a dream. Nothing to worry about."

Hermione shook her head, but Pomfrey answered. "No, Mr Potter. That wasn't _just_ a dream. You were yelling so loudly you could've woken my deaf father! And your magic was flashing about the wing, young man, it was quite a sight, yes, but dangerous. Very dangerous."

Harry looked at her sheepishly. "It's not like I could do anything about it," he said truthfully with a shrug. He didn't know he'd been using magic. And it wasn't like he wanted to; the idea of his magic lashing out and being dangerous to other people came just a little bit too close to his nightmare.

It was his greatest fear: to lose himself completely and hurt someone. He couldn't imagine the horror of having absolutely no control over his actions. He didn't like this creature inside him; so far it had been quiet, but who knew what would happen if he'd get really riled up? Last time that had happened he'd passed out, but what if that wouldn't happen the next time? What if he'd give up, let the creature take him completely? He didn't know what would happen. Perhaps it would do exactly what he'd seen in the dream: take other people's magic. The book had said that was what would happen if he was being seriously threatened. Which could easily happen in real life, it's not like he had _only_ fans out there. There were other people too, who didn't particularly like him.

Taking a wizard's or a witch's magic was the worst crime imaginable. Magic was, in some ways, their life-force. Especially if they were a magically-raised human: they'd never learned to live without. The idea that Harry was capable of doing that to people, that something within him knew _how_ to do it, and _wanted_ to do it, even… that was just frightening.

He looked at the people at his bed. "I'm all right," he said, even though it was a small lie. But his inner turmoil wouldn't be as easily explained to them as physical problems would. Madam Pomfrey was a nurse, not a psychiatrist. "Really, I am."

Pomfrey ran another scan over him, before she nodded. "I'll take your word for it, Potter. However, if you experience just the smallest discomfort, just _the littlest bit_, call for me, okay?"

Harry nodded. If he had to call for the smallest discomfort, he could call her right now. He didn't say anything, though.

"Good," she said. She began walking toward her office, but before she got there, she threw over her shoulder with a small smile: "By the way, Potter, that hair is just ridiculous."

Harry reached for his hair, but, of course, he only felt his untamed mop. Luckily that had remained the same; if he'd suddenly had have new shiny, pristine condition hair – like Malfoy's – he wouldn't have been sure there was anything left of the real him at all.

"It's about 80 percent white," said Hermione helpfully, and Harry smiled at her. He was very thankful for his friends.

Ron took that as his cue to talk. "Mate, it was so strange. You'd fallen asleep not long after Malfoy - that prick – left," it took all of Harry's self-control not to growl at that. Though, there might have been an almost inaudible snarl heard, if you listened closely. "We decided to stay here a little longer in case you woke up again, it was only morning, of course. Why did you fall asleep again, anyway?" he asked.

Harry shrugged. "Guess I was still tired. Teenagers are sometimes allowed to sleep in, you know, and I haven't had a nice sleep-in for a long while."

Ron nodded understandingly. "I get that. Anyway, you were sleeping, when suddenly you started to groan and yell occasionally. Of course, Pomfrey heard your racket so she came in quickly, but we couldn't wake you! It took some time, truly. What were you dreaming about that would make you so panicky?"

Harry swallowed, thinking hard. He could say 'nothing' like he'd done so many times over the past few days. But that felt like betrayal: his friends gave him everything they had – Hermione had even forgotten about her homework from time to time – and he gave them nothing in return. Yeah, he'd tell them. Maybe they could help him with this.

"In the dream there… well, for starters, I didn't know I was dreaming. Which is usual, of course, but I mean that everything was extremely life-like. In fact, the settings looked uncannily much like the one right now," he said as he looked around.

Hermione and Ron were even in the exact same place as they had been in the beginning of the dream. He did really hope it wasn't a premonition of some kind. _No_, he told himself,_ I have complete control over myself. I won't become angry at anything. I won't let something like the events in the dream take place, ever_. _I simply won't ever get that riled up. I hope._

"We were having an argument over something," he continued. Hermione looked like she wanted to say something, but Harry didn't want to be interrupted, so he quickly began speaking again. "And I got really mad. The creature got control over me, I think. I don't know. I just know that I…"

"You what?" asked Ron, inelegant as ever. Hermione elbowed him in his side. He rumbled.

"I began sucking magic… out of you two," Harry said reluctantly, grimacing at the image in his head. It did sure sound scary now that he'd admitted it out loud.

Hermione looked at him, piercingly. Ron just sat there. He wasn't very quick in the uptake.

"Harry," Hermione began, "You would never do that, you know that."

"Yeah, _I_ would never do that, but Hermione, did you forget? There's a creature inside me, too! And that creature would be happy as hell to do exactly that!" Harry said, rather forcefully. He took a deep breath. He needed to calm down. He'd promised himself he wouldn't get annoyed, angry, or anything of the kind. So far, it wasn't really working.

"How do you know?" asked Ron. He sounded curious, more than accusing, but Harry didn't really notice the difference.

"Because this creature is _me_! There may be two side to me now, but it still is me! I can tell what the creature-side of me is thinking, Ron! Geesh!"

Harry knew this was kind of getting exactly like how his dream had gone. That was bad, very bad.

He quickly jumped off of the bed. He walked over to the far corner of the wing, as far away from his friends as possible. He really didn't want to hurt them; he'd never forgive himself if he did. He threw his arms around himself. Then he began pacing in circles, walking a small loop like a confined dog would do. Perhaps he _was_ even a bit like a confined dog, especially because his fangs had come down in anger and frustration.

_Frustration about what_, asked a malicious sounding side of himself. _Frustration about your friends' incompetence, or frustration because you can't get to do what you'd really want?_

Harry growled loudly at nothing in particular. His fangs drew a little beads of blood from his bottom lip. His vision had turned clearer; he didn't need his glasses. He ripped them off his nose, suddenly annoyed at the things. His skin had gone paler too, from its usual tan to an almost translucent shade, a bit like Draco's. He was sure his hair had gone silver too, but he couldn't see.

He paced and paced, but the anger didn't leave him. He didn't know what to do. One side of him wanted to curb it in, to let his magic hurt no one, but another side told him to let it out, to let it reach across the room and snatch everything in its path.

He didn't want to hurt anyone, but he also didn't want to keep his freakily churning magic inside; if it kept rumbling like this, and it wouldn't pass, he was sure it would kill him eventually. The magic, the anger, wanted to come out, Harry knew that much. So he did.

He released his tight control over the effervescing matter, letting it loose, letting it swerve around him. However, never did he let it reach Ron or Hermione. He saw everything in the room in clear detail, could see his friends, see and feel their heartbeats, hear them thinking. But he steered way clear of them: the amount of magic could kill them.

A wind was blowing around him, his fringe sweeping across his face, back and forth. Somehow, the air around him had become heavier, it looked _darker_. Harry hadn't realised how much magic he'd actually been curbing.

He kept standing strong for as long as the magic was eddying around him, but eventually, after syphoning everything he had out of himself, he staggered to the wall and let himself slide to the ground.

His heartbeat was irregular and his breathing erratic. He had exerted himself to the point where basic human emotions were no longer existent; his anger simply wasn't there anymore. He no longer had the clout nor the strength to feel it.

It was liberating. He was empty inside. But if felt great; for the first time since months, he felt at peace. It was therapeutic: he hadn't known how much his magic, but his emotions too had been spinning about the last year. He hadn't had a proper vent in Merlin knows how long. Apparently, he should do it more often.

He looked at his hands: no longer white. They had returned to a healthy bronzed colour. He also noticed his vision was blurry again. He grabbed his glasses from the floor, he hadn't needed them. Even though he knew he wouldn't feel anything, he raked across his head. Well, his hair was still there, but he didn't know what colour it had.

"It's about ninety-five percent black," piped a shaken sounding Hermione and despite everything, Harry had to laugh.

He looked over at his friends. They were still standing in the same position as before. Their faces radiated concern.

_Concern for me? _Thought the naïve side of Harry. _Why would they? I just showed them how capable of hurting them I really am, how much out-of-control magic there is in me. Why would they be concerned?_

Hermione stepped forward, looking like she wanted to help him, but she seemed hesitant. Even though Harry knew his friends were afraid of him, it still stung a bit.

"Perhaps it would be better just to leave me alone. It is obvious I am not in control. I'll hurt you," Harry said quietly, head low, fringe falling over his eyes. He could see his hair was black now.

He startled when he was suddenly wrapped in tight arms. He hadn't heard Hermione cross the wing.

"Harry. We're not afraid of you," she said close to his ear, "We'll never leave you. What you just did… you were obviously very angry and irritated, the creature was the dominant one, that's for sure, but even then… Harry, even though you have an incredibly rare creature in you, _are_ an incredibly rare creature, you controlled yourself. You didn't let yourself hurt us, even though it's in your nature to eliminate any threat that appears, in the creature's nature. Don't you understand how much of an achievement that is? Any lesser wizard would have given in, Harry!"

She sounded very sure of herself as she let him go. Harry looked at her, dumbfounded. Even more so when Ron clapped him on his shoulder, saying: "Mate, we don't see you any differently. You had just been bottling things up. I'm amazed at how long you managed to hang in there! That magic needs to go somewhere, Harry."

Harry nodded at Ron once, trying to look as thankful as he felt. His friends gave up everything to be there with him, and what was he doing to pay them back? Nothing.

But then he thought back to what he had said to Malfoy a few nights ago: _Not everything in the world is about balance, about one thing against the other. Not everything is about vengeance and forgiveness. Life isn't keeping track of points._ That had been his advice to give, but he had completely forgotten about it.

That's what Hermione had tried to make clear; he was their friend and they wouldn't give up on him. Not even when he's changed so much that some people would say he's a whole different person. And perhaps he _had_ changed in the sense that he wasn't who he had been before, but should that reserve him from living his life? He could mope about it, or he could accept it and move on. This was permanent, so he might as well consent to it.

"Of course," were the rivetedly whispered words next to him. From the female part of their trio, obviously. "Of course. Harry, have you done any magic while you were in the hospital?"

"_Am_ in the hospital, and no. Aside from a few Tempus charms. But other than that, no," he said, wondering why she sounded so excited. She only sounded like that when she made a big breakthrough, but Harry couldn't see why there would be such a thing.

"Harry, you've been supressing your magic, don't you see?"

Harry frowned. "No, I don't."

Hermione huffed. Then she took a deep breath, telling Harry she was going to give him a long story. "You are so powerful, Harry. It wasn't just coincidence that the creature manifested itself in you, not in your father or anyone else along the line. It means you have an incredibly powerful magic core. Not many people have those; there's a reason Spectres are so uncommon. The inheritance only starts if the person has far-above-normal magical skill.

"No one in this school is as powerful as you are, Harry, that's why you couldn't have known. But commanding magic needs to be released once in a while. If not, there could be side-effects. Irritableness, quickly angered, magical outbursts from time to time. That outburst you just had was probably a combination of the creature and your suppressed magic, which only made it worse.

"I have to tell this to Madam Pomfrey too, of course, but I suggest we go to the Room of Requirement once in a while. To let your magic out."

Harry frowned once again. "My magic's not some sort of dog. It doesn't need to be 'let out'."

"Yes, Harry, it does! I know you don't understand now, but I'll bring you the books. You'll see," she said.

Ron took this moment to clear his throat. "Well. I see you're going to have a little study session. That's fine. But if you do, just let it be clear, I'm not going to sit around and listen to you babble," he turned to Harry, "Sorry mate, but you know Hermione," he mock-whispered. "Once she gets into lecture-mode you'll never see the end of it. I'm going to take my leave now, when I am still in my right mind, not assaulted by study-stuff. Be save, chum. I wish you all the luck in the world."

Harry grinned at him. "When you don't hear from me in four hours-" he whispered back, "-contact McGonagall. Tell her Harry Potter is in grave danger. She'll come running."

Ron nodded seriously, turned around and marched out of the wing. Harry watched him go, a small grin still on his face. "So," he said, as he turned toward Hermione and he smiled when he saw she had precisely the same expression as he had had on her face. Although, there was just an added extra in that expression. Exasperation? Yes, but in a good way. She had a small smile on her face, but it showed just a bit of annoyance as well. _That is what love looks like_, thought Harry cornily.

"Stop looking at me like that," she said as she turned to him. "I'll get my books in a few seconds, I just have to tell my ideas to Pomfrey first."

Harry nodded. He didn't think this was going to be fun.

* * *

After a good hour or two, Harry sighed and put the book down. "All right. I think I get it, Hermione. In fact, I think I got it two hours ago, already."

"That may be so, but this is important, Harry," she said, looking at him sharply.

They were sitting on the hospital beds, Harry cross-legged in his own, book in hand. Hermione on the one next to Harry's, bed laden with books, all at least three hundred pages thick.

"Yeah, I realise that, but still… how do you know so much about Spectres all of a sudden, anyway?" he asked, thinking back to some of the things she had said.

Hermione smiled sheepishly. "Well, these books-" she said as she held up a few thinner books, "-mention Spectres. But this one," she held up a thick one, "is about ghosts entirely. It has quite a bit of useful information in there."

Harry's mouth hung open, he realised. He shut it quickly. "How come you got those books? I couldn't find one useful book in the entire library! Well, not a book that said more about them than the usual 'we don't know much'."

Hermione had begun scanning her book again and she sounded distant when she answered: "Well, maybe I am just more of a bibliophile than you are, Harry. I have, after all, a lot more experience in the library."

Harry huffed scathingly, but refrained from answering. It would only get him in deeper, he was sure.

He looked at the book at his side. 'Magic for the Magically Gifted', he'd been reading. Well, he hadn't really been reading. He'd just moved his eyes back and forward and flicked the page a few times to make Hermione happy.

"'Mione," he said, "I think it became time you went back to Gryffindor Tower. I mean, you've been here for hours. I appreciate that you want to help me, but you've got to think about yourself a bit too," he said carefully. And, of course, he wanted to have all the time for Draco later. But that, he didn't say.

True to Harry's prediction, Hermione yawned widely, before covering her mouth. "Okay. Okay, yeah, maybe you're right. After all, we've got lessons tomorrow. I'll come back tomorrow and take you to the Room of Requirement, Harry. We'll work something out. And I still need to finish my Arithmancy homework."

Harry gasped dramatically. "What this? Hermione Granger hasn't done her homework yet? Surely the world will come to an end any time now?" he asked. Sounding a bit like Malfoy, now that he thought about it.

Hermione looked at him amusedly. Then she turned around, flicking her bushy hair over her shoulder. "You shut up, Harry Potter," was the only thing she said. Then she waved at him one last time and left the infirmary.

Harry sighed. Now all he had to do was wait.

* * *

Time went slow, but when the doors opened around twelve 'o clock at night, it felt as if it had gone far too fast. Harry didn't know what to say. He didn't know what he was going to do. Discuss his day? Even though it had been more exciting than your average day, he didn't know if Draco would appreciate it. So then, continue where they left last night? With questions like 'what is your favourite animal?' He wasn't so sure he would appreciate that either. But in case they did, it's a deer.

"Potter, you alone?" asked a whispering Draco Malfoy. Now that was a sight.

Harry nodded before he realised it was completely dark in the wing and Draco wouldn't see it. "Yes. I'm alone."

"Good," came the answer, now in normal speaking tone. A light was lit on the far side of the wing, which wobbly made its way over to Harry's bed.

"It's dead dark in here. It's almost scary," said Malfoy, his face illuminated eerily in the wand-light.

"Hm," was all Harry said. "You'll learn to live with it. It's not like I could keep a constant Lumos on."

"You could. Or you could just ask Pomfrey for a candle," said Draco flippantly. His hair was almost luminous in the bright light from his wand. If it was just a bit lighter, Harry would have to shield his eyes.

"Candles burn out eventually."

"Not Ever-lasting Candles."

Harry frowned, temporarily thrown off. "Do those exist?"

Draco sighed. "And this, ladies and gentleman, is the guy that saved the entire world from its tragic end. Harry Potter; Saviour; Golden Boy. More commonly known as: nitwit."

Harry couldn't help it: he laughed. Draco sure had a very dry sense of humour. Harry didn't mind. "Well, excuse me. I think you should have a little bit more respect for me," he said mock-angrily. The blond smirked back at him in challenge.

"Is that so?" he asked, suddenly looming very close to Harry. "Well then, why don't you show me what respect means, exactly?"

Harry didn't answer. Instead, he looked down at Draco's lips, which were suddenly really far too close. He swallowed. He knew what he would like to do, but he wouldn't. He had promised he wouldn't. So far, Malfoy'd kept his promises, so he should too.

"Draco. Back off now, or I swear, I will do things," he said, whispering, but his voice sounded loud in his own ears. Whenever his creature-side became more pronounced, his voice turned deep and resounded slightly, if such a thing was possible.

Draco didn't seem to understand at first. "Things? What's that mean?" he asked, but the confusion disappeared off of his face as he looked at Harry's pained, scrunched-up face and then at the distance – or lack thereof – between them. "Whoops," he said as he quickly drew back, instead jumping on Harry's bed, crossing his legs in the same was Harry's did. "Sorry. I don't mean to provoke you, or anything like that."

"I should hope not, or I will ban this no-touching thing this bloody second," Harry said lightly, even though he was battling his instincts which told him to just _jump_ Draco and make him shut up.

"Kinky, Potter," observed Draco smugly. "I didn't know you had it in you. Oops, sorry, there I go with the provoking again," he said, even though he didn't sound very sorry.

Harry growled lowly in his throat, letting some of what was playing in his mind show. Draco didn't even flinch.

"Temper, Temper, Potter. You should learn to control yourself, otherwise you'll never get back into the school."

Harry huffed. "You try learning to control a bloody creature, then we'll speak."

"Potter, don't you read? Your books mentioned the mate of the Spectre is always human. That's rather convenient though, I'd been wondering for a while if I was perhaps a quarter-Veela."

Harry laughed. "Yeah, you do have the vainness and the hair to be one, I have to say. Shame."

"No, it's not a shame. It's bad enough that I am going to get married to a less-than-pureblood. If I were one myself, I might have to kill myself."

"Who said anything about marriage?"

Harry wasn't worrying about what he was going to say or do anymore; in fact, he was extremely enjoying himself. Perhaps the creature had a point about Malfoy. Draco.

* * *

**Chapter Eight**  
**Buddies**

"Who said anything about marriage?" asked Harry, not really serious, but… interested anyway.

"Well, my mother, for one thing. Because: I'm most likely to be dating Harry Potter in the near future, he's not a pureblood – in fact, he's not even human –he's a bloke and he's not of Slytherin House. That's bad enough as it is. She'd be even more livid if I didn't marry you. I'd be a social outcast," Draco said while pulling his legs more securely under him.

Harry looked at him. "Are men even allowed to get married to other men here?"

Draco sucked in a deep breath, shaking his head and closing his eyes theatrically. "Potter. Don't you read Hogwarts: A History? Surely you have? It says homosexual marriage was approved in 1886. Haven't you read it?"

Harry shook his head. Then he changed his mind and nodded. "I have read that book, just not… all of it."

"What? It isn't even that voluminous. Don't tell me I'm being chummy to an ignoramus?"

Harry frowned. "What's that word even mean?'

"Merlin save me," muttered Draco spitefully, but Harry could see he was hiding a smile. His grey eyes were sparkling, laughing, even though he tried to keep his mouth ramrod straight.

"Well? Teach me. What's it mean?" Harry asked, leaning forward a bit.

"It means you're an uneducated person. Oh, excuse me. It means you're not-so-smart, Potter," Draco said with a smirk.

Harry hit him on the arm. "Don't be stupid, I know what uneducated means," he said with a small laugh.

Was this unreal, or was this unreal? He was talking to Draco Malfoy, pleasantly. While sitting cross-legged on his bed, he might add. While joking and not taking each other's comments seriously. Had he been having this conversation a month ago, they would've come to blows already; the comment about Harry's not-so-great reading talents would've sufficed.

But then, a month ago those words would've been uttered heatedly, angrily. Now it was just banter. Friendly banter.

Harry smiled.

"What're you smiling for?" asked Draco, face puzzled. "Knowing what the word 'uneducated' means isn't that big of an accomplishment, you know. Even that Creevey-bloke would know it, and that's saying something."

"What about Dennis? He's quite nice, actually," Harry said. He watched curiously as Draco released a big sigh, shaking his head sadly at Harry.

"Potter, Potter, Potter. So naïve. Oh well. What can we do about it? Ignorance is bliss, after all," Draco said, looking at Harry forlornly. "Every Gryffindor has the intelligence of a quaffle, like you and Dennis Creevey. In fact, that's a perfect comparative, now that I think about it; you guys are only worth something when you are thrown about, scoring points when you fall to the ground. It's perfect."

Harry was silent for a second. Should he? He should. "I am not actually a whole Gryffindor," he admitted quietly, but noticeably.

Draco frowned. Then he licked his lips. It seemed like that was a nervous gesture; Harry had seen him do it before when he was put under duress, or didn't know how to react. "What do you mean, a _whole_ Gryffindor? You either are one or not, there's no in-between."

"Actually, there is. The hat wanted to put me in Slytherin, but I _chose_ Gryffindor. Choices are what makes a person who he is, not his fate. Dumbledore told me that, anyway."

Draco was silent, but his eyes were flicking back and forward, as if he was reading something. Then he looked Harry dead in the face. "You're serious?" he asked. Harry nodded. "That explains so many things. I knew a Gryffindor couldn't have saved the world. That's just unheard of. And then _such_ sneakiness, Potter. I knew something was up. A Gryffindor would never do that while in their right minds; stalk people all year and murder evil psychopaths."

Harry didn't quite know how to react. "Yeah well. I _am_ a Gryffindor. Just, a little bit of a Slytherin too. The hat said I 'could've done well in Slytherin', it didn't say I needed to be put there, period. And I didn't _stalk_ you all year," he said, sneering at his last sentence. It seemed Malfoy-genes were rubbing off on him.

Draco grinned. "How did you know I was talking about that, then? I could've referred to anyone."

"Not likely. You're the only one I have ever come close to stalking to. You should feel honoured."

"Oh? Well, I do. 'Potter's Unhealthy Obsession', that's me," Draco said, looking up at the ceiling philosophically, sighing slightly. Harry could see he was just exaggerating.

It was amazing how quickly Draco could switch moods, though. One moment he'd be smirking and leering. The next, he'd be sighing and staring wistfully at nothing. It was freaky, but it intrigued Harry. It seemed Draco could be a decent actor. Although, he probably didn't even know what 'an actor' meant.

"That's spot on, actually. Hermione called you that one time during sixth year. I was getting a bit fixated on you at that time. Merlin, I was such a teenager back then," Harry said, exhaling frustratingly.

Draco patted him on his shoulder. "That's all right," he said, mischief behind his eyes firmly back in place. "I know I'm irresistible. It's not your fault, Potter."

Harry laughed. "Well, that wasn't on my mind back then. I thought you were a Death Eater, I was convinced of it, actually. I'd follow you around all the time to see if you were up to Death Eater business."

Draco sighed melodramatically. "And that's what we call stalking, Potter," he said with a raised eyebrow. "I see you have much to learn. Don't fear, though. Under my supervision, you'll be nifty in a month. I'll make a genius out of you, Potter, just wait and see."

"Well, I'd be eternally grateful if you do. I have to warn you though, Hermione's been trying since first year and she hasn't have much success either, so…. Just a warning," Harry said, lopsided smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.

Draco huffed. "Granger. Can't believe you compared her to me. Granger may have been trying for years, but you'll see. I'll make you one in less than three weeks," Draco said confidently, nodding slightly to himself.

Harry didn't react. He was watching Draco intently. Never had he once, just _once_, realised what might be hiding behind the mask of smirks and sneers. The mask of no emotion, the mask of stony indifference. Never had he realised that hiding behind that tiring façade, lived a young and vibrant young man, full of live, and a healthy dose of humour too. How could Draco have hidden that so successfully? How could he have hidden his whole personality? That couldn't be healthy for a person, not even a person as seemingly perfect as him.

Was he though? Perfect? So yeah, his looks might be, but his personality sure wasn't. From time to time he seemed almost bipolar, he was unpredictable, he often took comments the wrong way, he sneered, leered and jeered. But Harry found that he didn't mind at all.

Sometimes, someone just had to take things for what they were. A person can't change his own persona, just because other people don't like it. It's who you are, and that's not easily altered. And part of what made Draco so great was the other side of him; laughing, joking, drama and grins. Once you'd seen that part of him, you knew that he wasn't all that confident or stony as he seemed. Once you'd seen that part of him, you'd seen the real Draco Malfoy.

"-And then I'll present her the new Harry Potter, and then she'll faint - are you even listening?" asked Draco, eyebrows high on his head. Harry realised he'd zoned out, and truthfully shook his head.

"That's not very nice, is it? Not very wise, either. If you want to become smart, you'd better listen to me talk. It'll raise your vocabulary by about 60 percent, I wager," said Draco.

"You're full of yourself," Harry answered, eyes narrowed playfully. "Vainness is not a virtue, more of a sin."

"What would you know about that, Potter?" was the only thing Draco said. He went back to his studying of the ceiling, head thrown back. He stretched out his legs, letting them dangle off the bed, putting his hands securely at his sides. Harry watched him move, watched the now-pronounced Adams apple in his throat bob a little.

Draco's wand lay discarded on the bed, but the charm was still working. It lit up his face from below, making his eyes look black as the night, kind of like holding a torch under your face when telling a scary story. If only they were sitting at a campsite right now, warming their hands by the fire, instead of sitting on a little creaky hospital bed in Hogwarts' infirmary.

"I really wish we were somewhere else right now," Harry said quietly.

Draco didn't move, but he answered instantly, voice contorted because of the angle he was holding his head at. "I know. Even Malfoy Manor would be better than this. At least we have gardens."

Harry frowned. "Why don't you like it there?"

Draco sighed. Harry could see all the teasing, playfulness and ridiculousness had left him. He was dead serious now. "It's big. It is cold, it's lonely. My mother is the only one that lives there beside me. I went there after the War, of course. Father's gone, so there were only two people in the entire house. And well, we've got house elves, but they aren't great conversationalists, truthfully. I could go about the house for days without seeing mother once.

"Of course, it wasn't always empty, but I think you'll remember the last time there were guests over," Draco said, moving his head from its awkward position to look at Harry. Harry nodded. The last guests had been Voldemort and his cronies. "Never much fun. I just don't understand why it's so big. I guess every generation of inhabitants just keeps building new rooms, adding their own bit to the house every time. But over time, it's become more of a stronghold than a house to happily live in. It's beautiful, yes, but cold and lifeless.

"Add isolation and not-so-great-memories, and you'll get the formula for trepidation. I just can't live in that house without remembering the things that used to go on in there. That's why mother spends most of her time outside, with her flowers. Our gardens are the only nice and warm place on the whole property. The house's just a constant background of gloominess."

Draco finished his little anecdote, looking forlornly at the wall on the far end of the wing. Harry felt wretched; had he not asked about the house, Draco wouldn't be looking so lost right now. Still, he couldn't just ignore what Draco had just said, he couldn't just pretend he never asked it.

"That sounds horrible," he said. He pulled his legs from their cross-legged position, wincing somewhat when his knees protested after having been stuck like that for too long. He let his legs dangle off the bed, just like Draco's. They were now both facing the wall, sitting side by side, both looking lost in thought.

"Yeah, it is. If only my mother wouldn't be adamant about living there, I would've moved already. Do you have a place for yourself?" asked Draco, clearly trying to change the subject.

Harry was happy to do so. "Well, yeah. Sirius left me Grimmauld Place. But it was raided after the Death Eaters plotted it. Now it's just a mostly empty house. If I had time I could redecorate it… maybe next summer, I don't know."

Draco nodded. "Reason I was asking is… well, if we don't want you falling ill again, I'd have to stay close by, yeah? How is it going to work during holidays? Am I going to come with you? Or just show up every day? I'd take you to Malfoy Manor just to get some life into the place, but I figure you wouldn't appreciate that, am I right?"

Harry shook his head. "No, no Malfoy Manor in the near future. But I was thinking… in the coming holidays – Christmas, Easter, et cetera – we could just stay at school, right? We don't _have_ to go home."

Draco licked his lips. "Yeah, that'd be great, but truth is… I really don't want to leave my mother alone in there. She's been in there for far too long, it'd be torture to leave her alone there with Christmas too."

"So that means I'll have to come to the manor?" Harry asked. The place held some bad memories, so he wasn't very keen on that.

"Or you could just drop in every day, if you don't want to stay there for too long," Draco said.

Harry nodded and then sighed. "Not that I mind it being you, but… it'd be really easier if this creature had chosen someone else to be their mate."

Fortunately, it didn't seem to offend Draco. "Yeah, it'd be easier, of course, but it has chosen me for a reason. Actually, didn't some book mention that it chose the one with the most similar magical core? Lucky you it chose me, then, and not Granger. She's the second best, I'd think, considering magical prowess."

Harry didn't comment on the fact that Draco had just given Hermione a compliment - a masked compliment, though – instead he just nodded. "Yeah, most compatible. That's you. Do you think the creature pays heed to sexual preferences? Male or female?"

Draco shrugged. "How should I know? You're the bloody creature here, even though you keep treating it like it is some animal that lives _beside_ you. It's not, Harry. You _are_ the creature."

Harry didn't say anything, but he knew Draco was right. He couldn't think of himself as something other than human; after all, that's what he had been his whole life. But everything pointed to the fact that he was the creature. Not like the books said; that the creature took over the wizard's body. The wizard simply _became_ a creature, kind of like the wizard was still there, but with added extras. The wizard didn't disappear, he just got some new abilities.

That was a big thing to realise, though, no longer being human over the span of just a few days. It was even scarier to accept, to accept the knowledge that you had changed, whether for better or worse, no one knew. Changing without wanting to change was one of the most chilling scenarios imaginable. At least, for Harry it was. He hated not being in control of himself. If he wanted to change, he'd change, but not like this. Not involuntarily.

"I know," he said eventually.

Draco nodded at him. "Good," he said, and then he went back to his ceiling-staring. "When did you realise you were not a woman's man, though?"

Harry shrugged, even though Draco wasn't looking at him. "Quite some time ago, honestly," he said, dangling his legs back and forth. "But no one knows. Beside you, obviously."

Draco seemed to get some of his mischievousness back as he answered: "Oh? My, do I feel special. The first one to know Harry Potter's Great Secret. I could sell this to the Prophet for millions."

Harry chuckled lowly. "Yeah, you probably could. Rita Skeeter is a susceptible woman, she'll take your word for it in a minute, even though she knows it could be utter lies. When did you know, though?"

Draco looked at him, grey eyes illuminated faintly by the small light from the discarded wand that managed to reach over his pointed nose and sharp cheekbones. "I don't really know. Somewhere in the back of your mind, you always know. Even before you realised it, you knew. Anyway, that's how I feel. I think somewhere last year, it hit me. But I'd always known. Just hadn't comprehended those feelings yet. Afterwards, it was obvious."

Harry nodded. "I think I know what you mean," he said, breaking the eye contact. Draco's sharp eyes made him feel uncomfortable, like he could read his mind.

He let his head far forwards, and startled when silver hair fell into his eyes. Draco hadn't even said anything about that. Harry didn't mind though; if someone reminded him of it, it resulted in him getting self-conscious.

He tried to shut his mind, to think of nothing, stopping his racing thoughts. Surprisingly, some of the silver disappeared, but white streaks remained. It seemed he was getting better at controlling it already.

"I liked it silver too," Draco said matter-of-factly. Harry looked up, and realised Draco had been watching him. "But I don't mind which colour it is. Just… you don't have to change the colour for me."

Harry nodded gratefully, and released his mental blocks. Instantly, he could see some of his hair going silver again. It seemed the creature – no, _he_ – was pleased about the situation. About Draco being here. And well, Harry guessed he was. No nagging nausea at the back of his mind, no chance to fall ill again. But above all, a friend. Someone who sat next to him and _listened_.

Of course, Hermione and Ron could do that too, but they were different. He couldn't talk about things he talked with Draco about to them. He couldn't joke with them the way he did with Draco. They couldn't quite… understand him like Draco could. And for that he did feel guilty, because they had been his friends for eight years, and Draco for a week or so, if you could even call him a friend. But already he felt he had more in common with Draco than them. He could talk so easily to Draco, the conversation came without thinking. It was marvellous.

Of course, he wasn't kidding himself, there were also things he couldn't talk with Draco about. Draco hadn't been with him during the Horcrux-hunt. Draco hadn't saved him uncountable times in the past. Okay, so maybe he shared a different history with him, but still... there was something there.

_It's probably just the mate-thing that makes you so fond of him_, he thought to himself, _it just that which made you become instant buddies._

But they _hadn't_ become instant buddies. They shared a different history than with his friends, yes, but theirs was just as long. Eight years. Eight years which, until now, had been filled with fights and cussing. Perhaps the state of affairs which they were now in had just made them realise what other options they had, besides fighting.

Maybe, all they had needed was a little push.

* * *

"Not that I mind, but… are you ever going to leave?" Harry asked.

It was around five o'clock in the morning, and he was tired. But not tired enough to tell Draco that he needed to leave.

Draco shrugged. He was lying with his head at the end of Harry's bed. Harry was lying propped against his pillow, shoulders slightly higher than the rest of his body. He might like lying like his because he could see Draco from head to toe. He might.

Draco's legs reached up to Harry's upper-arms. Draco was really horrendously tall, which wasn't fair. Harry knew he had grown over the summer, but next to Draco he still looked small. Next to Ron too, for that matter.

Harry was glad to be just staring at Draco. They didn't need to talk. They had been lying silently on the bed for the last hour, just breathing and thinking. But Harry knew Draco hadn't fallen asleep one time, because Draco's eyes kept flicking back and forward, as if he was reading something. He did that a lot, along with his lip-licking.

He was rather mesmerising, to be honest. Especially now, with in the faint light reaching into the window. It wasn't truly light outside yet, it was far too early for that, but the world had started to wake up again, and slowly the unimaginable dark had made way for grey and thick mist. The Lumos of Draco's wand was long gone.

Never had Harry seen Draco like this. He'd gone from upright with clenched fists to sitting cross-legged on his bed, and from there to reclining on the back of the bed, to eventually giving up and lying down completely. Total submission.

That's what it seemed like, at least. Just like dogs; they wouldn't lie down at first, wanted to sniff the place out, test the waters. Eventually they would sit, but they'd remain vigilant. And then, after hours of reconnaissance and scouting, they would relax; they'd lie down, put their head between their paws and sleep.

However, Draco wasn't sleeping yet. But judging by his drooping eyelids, that wouldn't be long. They couldn't though. Maybe this time they wouldn't be so lucky to be awake before Ron and Hermione barged in. And then they would be in a world of trouble. Last time, they'd been able to spare themselves from hours of interrogation because Draco had acted quickly. But he wouldn't have if Harry hadn't been awake before him, and hadn't shaken him awake. If they found them lying on Harry's bed like this… that'd be one hell of a day.

So, no sleeping then. That means they would have to keep talking to keep themselves awake, or Draco would have to leave. _Or you leave too,_ said a treacherous voice in his mind.

_No_, Harry thought sternly, _that'd only make them worry more_.

"No," said Draco, and Harry jumped, thinking he could read his mind, before he remembered he had asked a question. "Well, yeah, when it's light enough outside to find my way around without Lumos. I'm too tired to do a spell now."

Harry looked at him, saw his eyes drooping again. "You can't fall asleep, though. I don't want to explain how I found myself in this situation to Hermione and Ron."

Draco shrugged again. "Then I'll just leave as soon as day breaks. Speaking of Granger, hasn't she caught on yet? I thought she was such a shrewd witch?"

Harry frowned. He saw no reason why she would've caught on; they'd been playing very safe, hadn't they? "What do you mean? We didn't do outrageously obvious things, did we? Even she isn't that smart."

Draco chuckled. "No, not on us. I mean, you said she had all those books, yeah? With lots of information in them?"

Harry nodded. "Yes, so?"

"Well, some of them are bound to mention mates, aren't they? You mean she hasn't said anything about that yet?"

"No," answered Harry. "No, she hasn't even mentioned it. Maybe she thinks _I_ don't know yet. That she thinks she has to break it gently."

"Break what gently? That you'll be forced to spend your whole life with a foreordained partner?"

Harry frowned.

"Sorry," said Draco, after Harry stayed silent. "I didn't mean to say it so harshly."

"That's all right. That's the first time ever that I've heard you properly apologise though," he said. _To me,_ he added silently. He had heard Draco apologise before, when he'd defected to their side during the war. He had a lot of apologising to do at that time. Draco probably knew that too.

"Well, miracles do happen," Draco said simply. He closed his eyes entirely.

"No!" Harry said quickly. "You have to stay awake. If you fall asleep, I am bound to fall asleep too. And then we'll be woken either by Pomfrey or my friends."

Draco shuddered. "Yuck, that'd be so awkward, though."

"That's what I mean. Just talk, or something, if you can't stay awake otherwise. If you can't, then go to your dorm. Not trying to be rude, but I _really_ don't want them to find us."

"That's rude, Potter, just asking your friend to kindly fuck off," Draco said, still having his eyes closed.

"Harry. That's my name, not Potter. And you know I don't mean it like that. And since when are we friends?" he asked. Not that he minded. He didn't mind at all.

Draco raised his head somewhat, finally opening his eyes again. "Since now," he said simply, looking Harry straight in the eye, piercing grey eyes made only greyer by the mist outside. Then he let his head drop again. "Might as well. I think after spending two nights with a bloke, talking and telling each other's life stories, you're allowed to call each other friends. Don't you agree?"

Harry smiled. "After spending two nights with the same bloke, I'd think you could call each other more than friends."

"Fuck off," Draco said, "You know what I mean. You're such a teenager, Potter. Harry."

"Yeah, well, let me be," he answered, putting his head back on his cushion, "I've fought a madman since I was eleven; I think I'm allowed to be a teenager now. I didn't get a chance to be one back then."

Draco laughed, although he sounded tired; his voice was thick and slow. "You were in fifth year. Merlin, you were rowdy back then. Typical hormonal youngster."

"I wasn't rowdy. Well, maybe I was, but not because of hormones. I had a lot to deal with at the time, and _no_, that wasn't normal fifteen-year-old stuff," he said, gazing up at the ceiling the same way Draco was doing.

It was silent. For a long time.

"Draco?" he asked, but didn't receive an answer. He raised his head again and saw Draco sleeping peacefully on the other side of his bed. Harry smiled. He looked quite cute.

But they couldn't sleep. Merlin, this was just so frustrating! Why couldn't they be normal boys, who were allowed to date and go to their own dorms if they wanted to? Why did they have to be so sneaky?

_You don't have to be sneaky_, there was the Slytherin Harry again, _you could just tell everyone. Sure, they _would_ mind, but then you wouldn't have to be so watchful of your every movement anymore_.

It would be great, if only for that last part, but Harry didn't dare. His friends were what he held most dear in this world. He couldn't just tell them 'hey, I'm kind of getting into Draco Malfoy, pun not intended, so get used to seeing us around together.' Somehow, he thought that wouldn't go over great.

Maybe because his Slytherin side was thinking at the time, he suddenly had an idea.

"Draco?" he asked, leaning forward and shaking Draco's legs which lay by his side. "Hey, wake up."

"Hrmmr," was the helpful answer he got. "Don' wanna move. Can't walk back to dungeons like this."

"I know. That's why I'm going to get my invisibility cloak," Harry said while jumping off the bed, reaching for his trunk. Thankfully, his cloak was on top now, having used it to get to the library.

"Come on, move," he said, pushing Draco roughly.

"Yes, yes," Draco said, sliding off Harry's bed and flopping down on the one beside it, draping himself inelegantly across it. Although, Harry didn't know if inelegantly was a word in the Malfoy-dictionary.

Harry threw the cloak over him, pleased to see it covered all of him, and left Harry staring at an empty bed.

"Don't move, you'll bump the cloak and you'll be visible," he advised Draco.

Harry heard Draco move, heard the creaking of the bed. Quickly, he cast a silence charm on it. He checked again, but couldn't see an inch of Draco. Good. At least they were relatively safe to sleep now.

Before he fell asleep completely, Harry thought he heard Draco mumble: "Told them he had an invisibility cloak."

* * *

"-llo Harry, did you have a good sleep?" someone asked. Someone who was standing right next to his bed.

He opened his eyes, but didn't see much. The light was much too bright.

"What time's it?" he asked, slurring a bit.

"Nine. Pomfrey will be here in a few minutes, I guess," that was definitely Ron. "Your hair's quite silver, if you want to know."

Harry shrugged. He closed his eyes and rubbed them, making twirling ribbons dance in front of his eyes. He opened them again. It took a few moments before his vision was cleared of pirouetting colours and hues, but when it did, he could at least assess the situation.

As they did every day, Hermione and Ron had arrived, bearing some sandwiches from the Great Hall. Just to be nice, he hadn't told them he could ask for anything when a House Elf came.

"Hi," he said drily.

"Good morning," Hermione said, as she put the tray down. "Harry, we can't stay long, but until we have to go to lessons, we'll stay here. Otherwise, I fear you'll die of loneliness."

Harry swallowed and nodded. Then, his heart almost jumped out of his chest as Ron made a move to sit down on Draco's bed. Harry didn't know if Draco was still there, but he'd better not take any chances.

"No!" he yelled, causing Ron to stiffen and look at him enquiringly. "Don't sit there."

"Why?" asked Ron, and Harry didn't dare look at Hermione. He could almost feel her gaze raking up his back. Sometimes, she was far too clever for her own good.

"Uhm," he said. He really wasn't a good liar. "There was a girl on there, yesterday. Being sick. Pomfrey hasn't changed the sheets yet."

Hermione's voice came from behind him. "I thought House Elves changed them, in the night?"

Harry blinked. Yeah, they did. Uh oh. He almost died when he heard an almost inaudible snort come from the other bed. Seemed his _silencio_ had faded while he was sleeping. Harry couldn't have known it was a snort if he hadn't known who was lying on that bed.

Actually, he may have just imagined it. Why would Draco have stayed here? Lying uncomfortably under a thin cloak. He must have been cold as hell during the night. Harry would leave, if he was Draco.

"Well. I wouldn't wager it," he said.

Ron shrugged. "It's not like it's dirty," he said, and then he sat down.

Harry waited for the inevitable, but it never came. Ron was sitting on the bed Draco Malfoy was possibly lying on, invisibly, and there hadn't been a sound. Weird.

Harry was getting sick of surprises, but it seemed the universe was not as something touched his shoulder shortly. Just a pat. He jumped, turned around. No one there.

Hermione was thankfully turned around, looking at the potion's cabinet, and Ron was inspecting his bed. Harry mouthed _Draco?_ to the empty space before him.

He felt another touch, this time on his arm. He smiled. Draco hadn't left.

The air was rustling beside him. He felt fabric rubbing by his ear. A very, _very_ quiet voice whispered: "Got class. See you later."

Harry nodded mutely. He waited until he saw the doors of the infirmary opening slightly, inaudibly, then closing again. Only then did he let out a relieved sigh.

"So, how about these sandwiches?" Ron asked joyfully.

Harry's stomach rumbled and he laughed.

So did Ron and Hermione, before they all grabbed one and tucked in eagerly.


	5. Chapter 9 and 10

**Chapter Nine**  
**Hindrance**

Harry woke, but for the first time in days, he didn't feel rested. He didn't feel quite as quiet and content as he had felt the last days.

Instincts kicked in as the creature recognised something was very, very wrong. Immediately, he shot up, looking around for danger. The empty hospital wing stared back at him. His hair was entirely silver, eyes frenziedly looking around, seeming to shine with their brightness.

Instead of calming down when seeing there was no threat at all, he got even more agitated. Every fibre inside his body was singing, strung to the point where it hurt. The more animalistic part of his mind told him they were in very real danger.

He scanned the wing once more. It was completely deserted. He couldn't make sense of his feelings. He wanted to crouch low, hide under his bed until the feeling passed, but on the other hand he wanted to run, to escape from this potentially deadly place.

He breathed in deeply, throwing the covers off of himself. Perhaps he just needed to calm down. Perhaps he'd just been having a nightmare, and the Spectre-thing was reacting to that. Somehow, Harry knew that wasn't the case at all.

Fear filled him. He was bouncing in place, looking for possible escape routes. It felt weird, though. It felt like it wasn't _his_ fear. In fact, the rational part of him knew he had no reason to fear at all, there were no threats around. _But there _are, said the other part of him.

He felt like he had two little people sitting on his shoulder. Angel and devil. Although, he wasn't sure who was whom.

He came to a conclusion; he raced towards Pomfrey's office, banging on the heavy wooden door almost before he got there, fist already raised.

"Madam!" he called. "Please, there's something wrong!"

He got no answer, a cold silence was the only response he got.

He paced a few strides, thinking. She must be down in the Great Hall, it's probably around lunch time, he thought, according to the sun. He slept in late these days. Hermione and Ron hadn't been over this morning. Anyway, the Great Hal. He couldn't go there. He was forbidden to go out of the wing, even more so after his little escapade to the library, which Hermione had shamelessly told the nurse about.

But he couldn't stay here, either!

As another bout of anguish volleyed down to his bones, making his body tingle, made his head fill up with dread, he made up his mind.

Faster than he had ever moved before – and he _had_ moved fast before, but this seemed almost inhuman… it probably _was_ inhuman, now that he thought about it – he shot across the infirmary, legs blurring in their movement.

Wasn't it vampires who possessed unearthly speed? Not Spectres, ghosts. Well, come to think of it, the books _had_ said that Spectres actually bore more resemblance to vampires than ghosts. It seemed they were right.

He wrenched open the door, completely ignoring the wards there. In his frantic state, passing through the wards that were supposed to be holding him, was like a hot knife cutting through butter. A piece of cake. Byrne, their Defence teacher, had put them up after Madam Pomfrey had heard about his escape to the library. Harry knew he wasn't supposed to know, but he'd felt the magic settle around the hospital wing, had almost heard the words being spoken on the other side of the walls.

Okay, so he was outside. And now? He stood still for a moment, and noticed the thin lines of white and silver slipping along the walls. He raised his eyebrows. It was something he'd never seen before. It was rather enthralling, he decided, as he drew closer to them. He ran his fingers along the wall, and a small electrical shock ran through his finger as he touched one.

Magic.

The answer came to him clear as day, as though he had always known. It was magic, travelling across Hogwarts, running in odd currents along the walls and floors, sometimes stopping completely after taking random turns, sometimes disappearing into the cracks in the wall. Dumbledore had always told him the castle was alive, and it seemed he was right once again.

Harry stared at the magic for a few seconds before his original mission skidded back into his mind, as a spell of terror shot through him yet again.

He inhaled sharply. He didn't know what to do. He didn't know what he was feeling; his mind told him to run, and his body wanted to comply, the only question was 'where'? Everything inside him told him he had a final terminus he needed to reach, something that should be clear as day.

Harry stood in the hall, looking right and left, legs taking him left down the hall, then changing his mind and going right again.

He wanted to grasp his hair and pull on it. He wanted to know what made him feel like this! As another bout of distress raced through him, the answer came to him clear as day. He could almost see the pale face these emotions belonged to, so vividly _his_ that Harry didn't even question himself.

_Draco_.

It was Draco. This was Draco he was feeling. These were Draco's emotions. And he was in terrible fear right about now. The book had said he might form a bond with him, but so quickly? He wasn't even really Draco's mate yet, surely a mental bond wouldn't form that quickly, right?

Harry didn't really stop to think about it as he tore through the corridor, suddenly knowing full well where he was going. _Second floor next to the library_.

He met a few people who'd apparently wolfed down their food; they were already going to the dormitories to get their stuff for afternoon classes, and they all stared at him like he was some kind of ghost. Their mouths hung open wide. Harry didn't really see why they would be so surprised - he'd walked these corridors for eight years, after all - but then, he'd completely forgotten about his hair.

He raced passed them, mind fully on getting to Draco, who, by the feel of it, was getting more agitated by the minute.

Harry growled lowly in his throat. He didn't know yet what had happened to make Draco so angry, but he did know he wouldn't like it. Whatever it was, they or it would feel Harry's wrath.

_No, _he thought sternly to himself, _I'm not going to lose my mind. I'm going to be in control and collected, _passing the portrait of Basil Fronsac – a fellow that wasn't impressed with Harry's newfound speediness.

"Hold up there, young man!" he yelled as Harry crossed his painting. "These corridors are for walking, not neck-breaking!"

Harry didn't pay any attention to him. He knew he wouldn't break his neck. However fast he was running, he felt like he was control of every fibre in his body. He could orchestrate his nerves to the point where his arm-hair would stand up when he told it to. In fact, fangs descended as he smelled Draco. Harry had arrived on the second floor now, and he _smelled_ him. The library was still a few hundred metres away, but _god _that smell… was Draco's blood.

Harry sped up some more, until he had to come to a halt, skidding, when he reached the library. It was empty, even Pince was down at lunch.

He could smell Draco clear as day, but he couldn't see him. When he focussed, he noticed he couldn't feel or read Draco's emotions either. He frowned, confused. He was still acting on his more animalistic self, so he sniffed the air. Draco was still here.

He followed the scent until it stopped at a dead end. How could Draco have gone over there, and then just evaporate? He had to be around there somewhere, hadn't he?

A low moan of pain reached his over-sensitive ears. Immediately, his head snapped to the source of the moan. There, in a little alcove Harry hadn't noticed before, with just a teensy little table in it, lay a crumpled heap of Draco Malfoy. He was shoved partly under the table, but it seemed the soon-to-be-dead people who had done this, weren't really bothered enough to hide him properly.

Harry growled so deeply, he was sure it resounded around the walls of books around him. He shot forward, squeezing himself into the little space, and crouched down at Draco's side.

"Fuck," he said, as he noticed Draco's face; it was bloody, beaten up, already turning purple in some places. "I'll kill those fucking bastards who've done this," he promised to the empty library.

Draco was out-cold. His eyes were closed, but his brow was furrowed into a frown. Harry rolled him over, grasping his shoulders and pulling him onto his back.

_"Fuck_," he breathed again as he saw the full scale of Draco's wounds. They littered all over his face, small cuts and scratches, with one particularly big gash through his eyebrow. He wouldn't be happy with that. If Harry had been anyone else, he would be sure he wouldn't even realise this wrinkled, beaten boy was Draco Malfoy. His formerly porcelain skin was blue and purple where fists had gotten him, only his temples and nose had remained their original colour.

Why, Harry didn't know. If it had been him, he would've gone straight for the nose. In their fights before this whole creature-thing started, Draco's nose had been Harry's favourite target; it cracked easily, bled effortlessly. And then the temples… had they hit him on the temples, he'd have gone out-cold straight away. Harry knew he had been conscious during most of it; he'd felt Draco's fear course through him for a full quarter of an hour, at least.

The only explanation was that they had been trying to teach him a lesson. They'd _wanted_ to keep him awake as long as possible, so Draco could feel what they were doing to him. And perhaps they hadn't wanted to make a mess, so they steered clear of Draco's nose.

Why would they try to teach him a lesson, though? Draco had been on their side. So yeah, his father wasn't the nicest man imaginable, but did that justify beating up the man's son, who had no influence on whose son he was? And yeah, Draco was a Slytherin. So what? Some of the best witches and wizards started their career in Slytherin.

As Harry scanned Draco's body, another thought popped into his head. What if it had been Slytherins? The Slytherins who had held true to the Dark Lord – or rather, their parents had, they had just been too spineless to follow Draco – weren't very fond of the blond either. They felt as if he had betrayed them, and, Harry guessed, in some ways he _had_. Had they done this to him? Just because they had been too scared and whimpering to walk away from it all, they had decided to take out their anger on Draco? Draco had showed them the proper example, so they hit him for it? That didn't sound rational.

Harry realised that his fantasy was walking away with him. He felt along Draco's arms, coming to the conclusion nothing was broken. However, it was very probable he had bruises and sprains over his torso and arms too, so Harry was careful in picking him up.

He was still running on adrenaline, so lifting Draco wasn't hard. Draco's legs hung limply over his right arm, his head was lolling over his left. It didn't look pretty, Harry was sure of that, but it was all he could do. In all his haste and confusion, he'd forgotten his wand on his bedside table, so he couldn't send a Patronus to Pomfrey or warn anybody else. He was lucky Draco's attackers had already left; without a wand, he wouldn't have stood a chance.

He strode out of the library with Draco hanging lifelessly in his arms. He was not thinking about where he was jogging to, instead, he was focussing on Draco's faint breathing against his Harry's jaw and the way his chest rose and fell, quickly, but steadily. All that counted right now was Draco being all right, and getting help for him. The creature-side of him rumbled agreeably.

Even without thinking about where he was going, he managed to reach the corridor leading to the infirmary. He'd met a few people along the way, all of which stared even more than when Harry'd gone down alone. He hoped he hadn't given them a heart attack; by the way they had been staring at them with their mouths practically on the floor, it was a possibility.

He managed to open the door by throwing his leg out awkwardly, kicking the door with all his strength, and what met him inside the wing was not what he had expected.

In a tight-knit group stood Pomfrey, the DADA-teacher Byrne and McGonagall. Harry grounded to a halt, suddenly feeling the full weight of Draco, and before he could drop him on the ground, he walked over to the nearest bed and gently lay him down. Then he made himself ready for Hell.

He turned around, seeing three stunned, insipid faces staring back at him.

"Er," was the most sensible thing he could come up with to say.

Pomfrey was the first to come back to life. She took a deep breath, and then went off like a Howler. "Mr Potter! You know full well you aren't supposed to leave the wing! You had us worried like no tomorrow! We didn't know where you went, young man! You could've been in serious danger."

_She means the other students could've been in danger, with me running rampant_, he thought. He didn't say anything though. As he heard a gurgle behind him, his mind snapped back to his original mission in a split-second.

"Please, Professor," he begged as he turned toward Draco. "He needs help. I'll explain it all later, I'll do hours of detention, please, just help him first."

He looked over his shoulder, and was relieved to see McGonagall and Pomfrey approaching Draco's bed. Byrne seemed too shocked to move yet.

Pomfrey began casting spells, but her eyes were on Harry. So were McGonagall's. Harry just looked down at his feet. But as the nurse began casting healing spells, he raised his head and looked at Draco. He looked even paler than before. And blurrier…

Blurrier? Harry raised his hand automatically, wanting to push his glasses higher on his nose - they had obviously slid down – when, instead of cold glass, he poked himself in the eye.

"Ouch," he muttered softly, blinking hard to erase the moisture that had sprung in his eye, and turned around to see if his suspicions were true; they were. His glasses were lying neatly folded on the nightstand next to his bed. He had put them there the night before; he hadn't worn them the entire time. He'd been able to see clearly.

He picked them up and pushed them onto his nose, only now noticing how weird it felt not to walk around with his glasses. His face felt bare like that. He'd worn them since forever; not needing them made him feel uncomfortable. Luckily, he did seem to need them when he wasn't going full Phantom-mode. That was a small victory at least.

He looked back at Draco's face. Pomfrey had spelled away most of the bruises and closed the gashes on his face.

"There will remain a light scar on his eyebrow, I'm afraid," she said a, as if she could tell what Harry had been thinking. "That one was quite deep. He's unconscious, and I'm not going to wake him. We'll let him sleep it off for now. But he should be all right."

Harry nodded, relieved.

Pomfrey stepped away from Draco, her face tight. Harry swallowed.

"Mr Potter, if you will please follow me to my office. Minerva, Byrne, you come too," she said firmly.

Harry nodded again, but his head hung low now, like some lost puppy. He looked at his bare feet – he hadn't even properly clothed himself; he was wearing pyjama-pants with a grey shirt – as he walked, following the professors.

He sat down on the stool next to the bigger chairs in Pomfrey's office. It was actually quite a nice office. It wasn't spacious, that was for sure, but that only added to the cosiness of it. There were pictures of people Harry couldn't recognise littered all over the wall, as well as a few portraits. One portrait portrayed a man with quite a large zit on his nose. Harry couldn't imagine why Pomfrey would keep a portrait like that in her office, but whatever floats her boat. The office was white, as were the chairs, but it didn't feel confining.

The nurse sat down behind her small desk. The professors took the bigger seats next to Harry's tiny stool. He felt a bit intimidated.

"Mr Potter," she began. "You were told not to leave the infirmary. Care to tell us why you did? And why, in Merlin's name, you come back holding Draco Malfoy's comatose body?"

Yeah, that sounded rather peculiar, Harry concluded. "I know I shouldn't have left, but I couldn't help it."

McGonagall spoke this time. "You couldn't help it? Why's that?"

Harry really didn't know what to say. Was he going to reveal everything? Draco was allowed to have a say in that too. Harry wouldn't tell if he didn't want Harry to tell anyone. But if he wouldn't, how could Harry explain this without telling them? Perhaps they had already realised it. After all, it was pretty obvious with him showing up with Draco in his arms.

"I knew someone was in trouble," he said. Let them make up their own minds.

"'Someone' being Draco Malfoy," Byrne said, the first thing Harry had heard her say today.

Harry nodded. "Yes. I know it may sound strange, but I knew he was in trouble. I could feel it. It wasn't pretty, I was practically all over the place. I didn't just go barging out of here, though; I tried to contact someone first, but I guess everyone was at the Great Hall for lunch."

Pomfrey nodded and motioned for him to go on.

"When I realised I was alone, I made up my mind. I would get him. So, I broke the wards-"

"Yes, rather impressive, that," Byrne interrupted him. "I put up those wards myself, I was sure they would hold, even under extreme duress. How did pull that off, Mr Potter?"

Harry shrugged. "It wasn't very hard, it took only a few seconds to bring them down," he said, realising that sounded a bit self-absorbed. Well, wasn't he allowed to be, for once?

Byrne laughed, a shrill, high sound. "Well, then I must confess myself blown. If what you say is true, then you are quite a powerful boy, Potter."

Pomfrey cleared her throat. "Well, Mr Potter here isn't just a normal boy, is he? He's a Spectre: for all we know, Spectres could be masters at dismantling wards. Add to that, Spectres only settle when the magic core is potent enough; Mr Potter is far more magically advanced than anyone in this castle, I'd dare say."

Harry was blushing a bit. It all sounded rather ridiculous; he wasn't powerful, he wasn't some sort of Dark creature that could do astonishing things, he was just Harry. So he had dismantled some ward, who cared? That wasn't such an amazing achievement.

"Anyway," McGonagall said, turning in her chair to look at Harry. "Continue."

Harry nodded gratefully. "So I broke the wards and made my way to the library; Draco was there."

"And how did you know?" McGonagall asked. "That Draco was there?"

Harry sighed. He wasn't sure how to explain, he just _knew_. "I knew it. Just like I knew that Draco was in danger. I knew, I felt. I don't know if you know what this all means, but I just _know_ things about him. Can feel him."

Pomfrey said rather gently, surprisingly: "We'll discuss that later, Mr Potter. Please continue."

"I found him there. He was all alone. Someone else did that though, someone else beat him up like that. I could feel fear shooting through him like lighting the entire time. He was attacked," Harry explained. He fought desperately to remain calm, but talking about Draco being pounced on by someone, and being beaten up, made him feel angry to the point where he wanted to break things.

"And who attacked him, Mr Potter?" asked Byrne.

"I don't _know_," Harry all but growled at her, and to his absolute mortification, fangs shot down. He covered up his mouth, eyes wide. "Oh god. Sorry," he said quickly, but it came out as a gurgle; those fangs weren't made for speaking.

"That's quite all right, Mr Potter," the transfigurations teacher said. "It's hard to control ourselves at times like this. So, if I understood rightly, you felt Draco Malfoy was in danger, tried to contact us first, couldn't find us, and went to get him yourself? And when you found him, you came back here, straight away?"

Harry nodded. The fangs wouldn't go away, and he didn't dare speak with them again; he'd have a cut lip quicker than he could say 'Flobberworm'.

"All right then, Mr Potter," the nurse said. "If you'll please wait for us outside; we've got to discuss a few other things."

Harry nodded and gratefully exited the office. He knew 'discussing a few other things' meant 'talking about the fact that Harry James Potter's mate is Draco Lucius Malfoy, how big of a universal joke is that' but he couldn't care less.

Did everyone already know, though? Had those people who had seen him already spread the word? They had seen him running around with silver hair, in pyjama-pants. Then they had seen him return, a lifeless Draco in his arms, with countless cuts gracing his face. That had to be the sight of the century for Hogwarts' grapevine.

That meant they all knew he was some creature, or they all thought he had dyed his hair. And if Hermione had heard about his jogging about with Draco, she probably had connected those dots as well. Great. Did all of his secrets have to be thrown around the school?

But maybe, the few students he'd met hadn't said a word yet, and all of his doom-scenario-thinking was just false alarm.

Harry noticed to his relief that his fangs had retracted. Those things sure weren't handy when -

"Harry?"

At once, Harry snapped back to the present. He looked over at Draco's bed. Draco was still lying there, looking as if he was sleeping, but that had been his voice Harry'd heard.

"Draco?" he asked, as he quickly strode to his bed. "Are you awake?"

"No, that's why I'm calling your name," came the sarcastic voice.

Draco's mouth was moving but his eyes were still closed.

"Are you all right?" Harry asked, moving closed to Draco's bed, putting his hands on the bedside. He peered at Draco's face. It was rather scrunched up.

"No," the blond said, and a thousand alarm bells went off in Harry's mind. "I ache. What happened to me?"

Harry swallowed. He wanted to run to Madam Pomfrey, wanted to beg for more potions for Draco, but he knew the blond boy wouldn't appreciate that. "I don't really know. You were in a pretty bad shape though. I guess you were attacked, or something like that. Do you remember anything?"

Draco shook his head, but changed his mind halfway and started to nod, before he winced rather spectacularly. "Ouch, that hurts," he said tightly, and Harry wanted nothing more than to make him lie still and lick his way across Draco's body until he had relieved every aching muscle. But those were inappropriate thoughts for a hospitalised man's bedside. "Yes, I remember being kicked until I hit the floor, but I couldn't see their faces. I don't remember much after that. Who found me?"

"I did," Harry said.

Draco opened his eyes at that, looking into Harry's directly. "You did? But you aren't allowed out of the hospital, are you? They even put up wards. Hope that doesn't make you angry."

Harry shook his head. "No, I knew about the wards. I knew they put them up. And I know I'm not allowed to, but you were afraid."

For a second it was silent. Draco looked at him, his eyes were wide. He seemed to be seizing Harry up, he was trying to come to a conclusion. Harry knew what was going around in Draco's head as soon as Draco began laughing, but it wasn't a very nice laugh; it was dry and his eyes were cold. "Oh, yes. Your hero complex. I should've known."

Harry knew he should've expected it, but it still hurt. He knew Draco wouldn't react well to him knowing how afraid he'd actually been. So yes, Draco had been opening up to him, but Draco's emotions were still his own. He was a very cautious man, always in control of the situation, but also always in control of his own emotions. Fear was not an emotion Malfoy-worthy. It was bad enough to Draco that he'd been afraid, but now he was even angrier because Harry knew he'd been.

"It wasn't like I could just sit here while I could feel everything, and wait till it was over. You'd do the same," Harry said, a little more forcefully than he intended to. He was still running on adrenaline from everything that happened earlier.

Draco sat up, trying his very best not to wince, but Harry could see past the façade. "But you didn't have to come save me like some damsel in distress, Potter."

Ah, there it was, the transition from 'Harry' to 'Potter'. Ron did that too when he was especially angry. That wasn't a good sign.

"But what if I hadn't? You'd still be there under that desk, countless gashes gracing your face," Harry said.

"At least then I'd still have my pride."

"Didn't you lose that when they beat you to a bloody pulp?"

Not a smart move, Potter, not a smart move at all, he thought to himself.

Draco leapt off of his bed at the left side, not the side where Harry was standing, finger pointing at him. "Fuck you Potter! You think you're so wonderful, bloody Saviour and all! Oh, being a creature must be great, right? Get to know what I'm feeling all the time, just because I'm your bloody mate! And what's that for kind of cosmic joke?! You're so busy with yourself, you don't for a second think about me! How do you think I feel about this? I'm not ready for this, Potter! I want to go to nightclubs, have one-night-stands! I don't want to be stuck to you forever, being some possessive git! I want to live too!"

Harry didn't know when an argument about him saving Draco turned into a full-blown fight about their whole future together, but it had.

"I know," he said. "And I want to live, too. I want to have a normal life. I'm not forcing you to do this, Draco. You can leave if you want to."

"And then you'd die!" Draco practically screamed, rounding on Harry, breathing heavily. Time stood still for a moment; Draco stood perfectly frozen. Then he blinked and the fight seemed to leave him. He sank down on his bed, anger forgotten. "We really have no clue, don't we? We have no choice."

Harry sat down next to him. He sighed. He looked at Draco, who was breathing heavily, his eyes downcast. "You do have a choice."

"If you suggest I let you die, you are an even bigger idiot than I already suspected," Draco said, looking over at Harry. His eyes were wide, pupils blown. "Could you imagine the headlines? _Left-over Death-eater killed Potter in last act of defiance_, or _Draco Malfoy, we always knew you were no good_.

Harry chuckled a bit, but he didn't really think it was funny. "Yeah, you could be right. Perhaps it's better now that Pomfrey knows. She could help us."

"Pomfrey knows?" Draco asked piercingly.

Harry looked down at his hands on his lap. "Yeah, well, it was kind of obvious with me carrying you in here, knowing you were in trouble when you were on the other side of the school. I haven't told her, you have a say in that too, but I think she can figure it out; she's not stupid."

Draco looked at him neutrally. His face was bland, and Harry knew his mask was back on. It was to be expected after all the surprises today. "No, she isn't," was all he said. Then he raked a hand across his face and stopped as he reached the somewhat unhealed slash through his eyebrow.

"What's this?" he asked, rubbing the spot with his finger.

Harry sighed. "Unfortunately, Pomfrey couldn't heal that one fully; you'll have a scar there."

Draco's eyes widened. "Really? So now I can join your exclusive forehead-scar-club? Epic."

Harry grinned a little, not sure yet what mood Draco was in. That guy could change moods in a nanosecond. "I guess you can. Even though it's more of an eyebrow-scar. But I'll excuse you that one. I say, join the club. Yours looks much cooler than mine does, though."

"Oh? That's a relief, without a scar I'd look bland next to you; you, with all your silver hair and lightning bolt marks. Now we add up," Draco said, letting his hand drop to his lap.

"I guess we do."

Both boys looked up when the office door opened, and Byrne and McGonagall exited. Pomfrey did a couple of seconds later.

The two professors left, both looking a bit pinched. Pomfrey approached them. "Okay, Mr Potter. We believe what happened today was not your fault, therefor there will be no consequences. However, I must ask… How long have you known this?" she asked as she waved vaguely between him and Draco.

They both looked at each other for a second before they shrugged at the same time. "Not for long," Draco answered. "Few days at most."

"And you didn't consider telling me?"

They shook their heads.

"If it hadn't worked out, we could've just moved on, and no one would be the wiser. I figured it would be better that way," Harry said sheepishly.

"Well, you figured wrong, Potter," Pomfrey answered. "We know next to nothing about your kind. I have to be informed of everything that happens to you so that I can decide whether there is any danger for you, or anyone else. I know you don't like to hear that, Mr Potter, but Spectres are known for their ability to draw magic out of other people. An unforgivable crime, of course."

"Yes. I know," he said as he heard Draco mutter: "That's a nice mood killer."

"I know," he continued, "But it will never happen."

"Potter, we must cover every possible scenario, otherwise you'll never get out of this infirmary. Considering what happened today… you lost control, didn't you? This time it was for the better, but next time we might not be so fortunate," the nurse said, and Harry could hear she was trying to sound gentle, but she didn't quite pull it off.

"I didn't lose control," he answered. "I knew Draco was in danger. I wanted to get him. And yeah, so did the creature side of me, but I still had my mind to myself. I made my own choices. I didn't just fly to him like some headless fool."

"You kind of did," said an amused voice next to him.

"Draco, you're not helping. Besides, you were unconscious, you wouldn't know," Harry said, looking at him.

Draco raised his eyebrows in challenge, then winced, rubbing his brow. The scar sat on his right eyebrow. There were no hairs left where it slashed through Draco's brow. It was still a bit red, a bit raw, but Harry knew it would fade into a white line. The hairs probably wouldn't grow back, though.

"About that," said Pomfrey, "Do you remember who attacked you? Can you recall any house-colours perhaps?"

Draco shook his head. "No. No, I only remember being kicked and beaten, but nothing else. No faces."

Pomfrey hummed. "Just as I expected. A rather nasty Obliviate was used on you, Mr Malfoy."

"What?" Draco said roughly, turning to stare at Harry. "You didn't tell me that."

"I didn't know," he answered, shrugging.

Draco looked at him intently before sighing. "I've been confronted before, but no one ever used magic. Not magic like that, anyway," Draco said, and Harry filed that information away for later use.

"Well, gentlemen," Pomfrey interrupted them. "We still have much to discuss, but I don't believe now is the best time for that. I suggest you both rest. Mr Malfoy, you are excused from class today. Potter, don't leave this wing again, you hear me?"

Harry nodded, as did Draco.

"Thank god it's Friday. No classes for two more days," Draco said as soon as Pomfrey had left, falling backwards onto his bed.

_How much coincidence does there exist in this world_? Harry asked himself. O_r maybe coincidence doesn't exist at all_. Harry Potter is a creature. Draco Malfoy is his mate. Harry Potter is forced to stay in the hospital wing. Draco Malfoy gets beaten up, ending up in the same wing where Harry Potter is.

"So, how about that chess board under your bed?"

Sometimes, life was odd.

* * *

**Chapter 10**  
**Taken**

Harry was sitting up in his bed, eating breakfast, as Hermione walked in. He raised his eyebrows, curious as to what she was here for. It was a Hogsmeade weekend today, and most people had chosen to go on Saturday. Hermione hadn't, it seemed.

"You needn't look so surprised," she said as she approached his bed. "I decided to stay at school today. Ron's out with Seamus and Dean. I figured now would be a good time to start your lessons."

Harry almost choked on his dry piece of toast. He swallowed quickly, pulling a rather ugly face at his toast. "Lessons?" he asked.

Hermione looked decidedly exasperated with him, her hands on her hips and head slightly cocked. He didn't know why. "Yes, Harry, lessons. Remember our little study session not three nights ago?"

Harry wanted to say _yes, but how does that correlate with 'lessons',_ before he remembered Hermione's promise to get him out of the infirmary to let him release some of his – apparently – pent-up magic.

Hermione must have seen realisation dawn on his face as she nodded. "Good. Finish your breakfast and dress. Meet me at the Room of Requirement, I'll be setting up the room for you there."

Harry nodded before he asked stupidly, "Room of Requirement?" But Hermione had already gone and shut the door behind her, making the sheets of the unmade bed next to it ruffle slightly.

Draco's bed.

Draco had left first thing this morning after having assured Harry that, yes, everything was fine, no, he was not angry, he was just going to spend some time with his friends in Hogsmeade.

Harry supposed that was understandable; Draco hadn't seen his friends since the day before, so they had to be worried by now. Still, that didn't mean he had to like it.

Remarkably, no rumours about him or Draco had spread yet. Harry knew this since - some fifteen minutes after Draco had gone - an owl had tapped on the big glass pane window next to his bed. It read: _everything's quiet, no worries. No one knows, no one's told_, in Draco's neat, cursive script. Incredible relief had coursed through him.

"No one knows, no one's told," he murmured to himself as he dressed, choosing a sweater and an old pair of denims; it was Saturday, everyone was in Hogsmeade, so he wasn't going to dress himself immaculately or put on robes. "Those people who saw me must all have been Hufflepuffs then."

Hufflepuffs were, naturally, the most trustworthy students. Not only because of their proclaimed loyalty, but also because of their intuitive knowledge of what had to be said, and what had to remain quiet.

Of course, Slytherins weren't so different from Hufflepuffs if you looked at it that way, but Slytherins took the latter as a decision they made themselves; they believed they had the right to say what had to be said if it concerned themselves, even though it would surely land in the 'remain quiet' box of the Hufflepuffs. Besides, the devotion-part was much the same; Slytherins were faithful to whom suited them best, and deserted those as soon as they weren't happy with them anymore. Hufflepuffs were loyal to whom they wanted, and then stuck with them until the very end. There was a great and important difference between those two.

But, Harry thought, sometimes the Slytherin-approach could be the superior one. For example, if Draco hadn't seen reason, and had stayed with Voldemort even thought that man was a raving lunatic, things would've been very different nowadays. In fact, Draco's Slytherin's affinities were what ultimately provided them with the larger army. Draco had provided them with victory.

Harry stopped by at Pomfrey's office, telling her he was going to the Room of Requirement with Hermione. He didn't want a repeat of yesterday.

"Of course, Mr Potter. Miss Granger already told me. You are allowed to go. However, I expect you back here in two hours, at most. If not… well, there will be consequences this time."

Harry nodded gratefully, and told her he would be back in time, he was sure.

He almost ran across the wing, then opened the infirmary doors, breathing in the fresh, decidedly different smelling air. He hadn't really noticed before, but it reeked like medicine and sterility in the wing. Out in Hogwarts' corridors, it smelt like home; the smell of stone and rain, mixed with the smell of the slowly cackling fires in the torches. Wax and stone and rain and fire. Home. Some people wouldn't think of that as a happy amalgamation, but it was. Sometimes, the only thing that made Harry feel happy was smelling the damp air in the big, looming corridors after it had rained.

Harry walked slowly, not hasty in getting to the Room. He enjoyed being freely outside for the first time, being allowed to walk the halls without fear of being discovered, or feeling guilty for leaving without asking.

Too soon, though, he reached the tapestry with the merrily dancing trolls. He smiled weakly at them. He got no reaction.

_I need to use the room Hermione Granger is in_, he told the wall three times in a row. He didn't know if he had formulated it clearly enough – for all he knew, he could end up with a room filled with pictures of Hermione - but to his relief he saw a door appear behind the tapestry, standing proudly on the formerly empty wall.

He actually didn't know for sure if Hermione was going to get him, or if he was required to find her himself. He decided it didn't matter anyway as he opened the door, its hinges creaking as if it was old, even though it had only appeared there a moment before.

Hermione was sitting in a deep chair, a red chair, reading a book. Surprise.

He cleared his throat to let her know he was there. She jumped slightly - just as she always does, Harry thought drily – and turned around, as if she didn't know who it could've been.

"Oh, Harry. I didn't think you would get here so quickly," she said, eyebrows raised. She put the book down on the table.

Harry moved further into the room, appreciatively looking around at Hermione's imagination. For that was - in essence - the room, wasn't it? How far could your mind conjure up space, how big could your mind build a room from scratch?

Hermione's room was, as was to be expected, very well-ordered. Just like her mind, organised and planned. The room was clearly divided into four parts: a little area to sit; a door which led, Harry supposed, to a toilet; a zone with cushions next to a window and, lastly, a place with nothing in it. Yet. Harry supposed that was where he was going to 'do magic'.

He didn't really know what Hermione had in mind; he certainly wasn't going to let his magic out and swirl around him like the last time. No, he would avoid that if he could.

"What, did you think I'd run a lap around the school first?" he asked her, walking over to the little couch next to her red chair.

She shrugged. "Actually, yes. After being holed up in there for so long, I would too."

He grinned, sitting down on the beige couch. He had to admit, Hermione's colour-schemes weren't the best. "Tsk tsk, Hermione. Didn't expect that of you."

She laughed and reached over to slap him on the arm. He pretended it hurt.

"So, what exactly is your plan for today?" he asked after he had assured her she hadn't actually hurt him.

She smiled as she looked around the room curiously, as if she had never seen it before. "Oh yes. I didn't really ask for it to look like it this way. I just told it; I need a room to safely do magic. It turned out to be this. Weird, isn't it?"

Harry shrugged. "Not really."

Hermione looked as if she wanted to ask him what he meant with that, but she closed her mouth after a few moments. "I guess. I figured we'd just start with the basics. Levitation_, accio_, that sort of thing. Just to get your magic going. After that we're going to move on to more advanced magic. Practically, we're just going to drain you."

"That sounds nice," he muttered. She sounded very teacher-y, something that never bode well with Hermione.

"Oh come on, Harry," Hermione's voice scolded him from the left. "You know what I mean. You've been in that hospital wing for far too long, doing nothing. You need to release some magic once in a while, especially now that you're a Dark creature-"

"I'm not a Dark creature," he said unexpectedly, snarling at her, and a bit louder than he had intended. His voice resounded slightly, darker and lower than normal. "I'm just Harry! It doesn't change who I am, my magic's still the same, Hermione!"

He breathed harshly through his nose, and felt somewhat stupid after he realised what he'd tried to convey, and he'd actually ended up affirming. He was a Dark creature, yes. He was, and there was no way around that. Still, that didn't mean he'd have to behave as one; to be catalogued and to act were oceans apart.

Hermione didn't speak, she just gave him a Look. A look that said I'm-not-even-going-to-say-anything-you-know-what-I-mean, her head cocked and a small grin playing around her mouth.

"Okay, so I'm a Dark creature," he admitted, voice reasonable this time. "That doesn't change my magic, does it?"

Hermione sighed, look slipping off her face. "Yes Harry, it does. Instead of your own magical signature and power, you have the Spectre now too. It added something to you, not only physically, but magically too. It must have added magical properties too for you to have so much pent-up magic over a short span of days. Harry, you need to realise you're not who you used to be, you've got to realise you're a creature now too, a creature with needs and wants you haven't had to deal with until now."

Harry nodded dully, not answering.

"And Harry," she said, sounding reluctant. "I hate to tell you this, I know how you don't like to be controlled in the choices you make, but… Spectres are believed to have… soul mates," she said that last part very quickly, and Harry wouldn't have understood if he was anyone else, and if he hadn't already known what she was going to say.

Harry tried to look shocked. Well, he _was_ shocked, but not in the way Hermione thought he was. Of course, he'd already known. Should he tell her?

"I… I know, Hermione. I read it in that little book. I just… tried not to think about it," he said eventually, stammering a bit for good measure.

Well, it wasn't really a lie. He _had_ read it in the pocketbook, and he _did_ try not to think about Draco… but only because he got distracted from anything else every time he thought about Draco.

Suddenly, he was embraced so roughly, Harry felt the need to draw his fangs. It felt like she was choking the life out of him.

"Herm-" he tried, but ended up spluttering when he got a few bushy, sweet-smelling hairs in his mouth. He tried to awkwardly get them off his tongue, but they stuck, so he didn't succeed.

She drew back and laughed at the picture he made, with his tongue sticking out and his hair even more ruffled than before. "I've got a really hard time believing sometimes that you've got Phantom blood running under your skin."

"Me too," he said as he plucked the hairs from his tongue. He looked at them for a second, then threw them away with a mockingly disgusted face.

"I guess it just shows how ignorant the wizarding world is in believing all Dark creatures are evil," Hermione said quietly, as she sat back down again. "Anyway – have any idea yet?"

"What?" Harry asked, thrown off by her quick question. "What'd you mean?"

Hermione wiggled her eyebrows suggestively. "You know… your mate."

Oh. Harry took a deep breath. "No. No, I don't. Maybe they're not from this school. Maybe… maybe it's like a very old person. Who says it has to be someone my age?"

Hermione looked at him wordlessly for a few seconds. Harry hoped he had lied well enough. "Well, it probably is. Your soul mate is the person you're most compatible with, again, also on magical level. Your magic wouldn't be the same as a fifty-years-old person's magic. It's just… different. Of course, I don't know for sure, but…"

She trailed off and Harry didn't ask what she'd wanted to say. He got it. "I understand, Hermione. Truly. But that still doesn't mean they're in this school though."

Hermione stared at the fire that was cackling merrily next to the little lounge. The she let out a big frustrated sigh. "It's just so annoying that there isn't any information about you! How should we know what's up with you, when we don't know the first thing about you?" she said angrily, her hands rising slightly as she talked.

Harry shrugged. "I don't know. But I guess… when I see my mate, I'll know," he said uncertainly, then changed his mind and added confidently, "I'll know."

Hermione turned to look at him. "I hope you do, Harry. I can't even begin to understand how confused you must be feeling about all of this. I know I'd be. Maybe we should try to get into contact with another Spectre. You know, to ask them things… things that we need to know."

Harry nodded, that sounded reasonable, but then he remembered something. "Pomfrey said Spectres are very rare, I'm very possibly the only one in Britain. I don't think it's going to be easy trying to find a Spectre outside of Britain. Even outside of Scotland would be hard."

Hermione said, "I'm sure we'll manage," but she sounded unsure herself.

It was silent for a few moments, during which Harry found himself staring at the fire. He knew for sure now that Hermione hadn't heard about him running around with Draco. Yes, she'd be gentle about it, but her curiosity was much too vast to keep silent about it for so long; she'd have asked by now.

"So, shall we begin?"

* * *

Harry spent the next one and a half hours practicing basic magic. It was quite boring. They covered subjects from first to third year, and Harry was sleeping on his legs by the time that they reached fourth. Not because he was tired, but because doing _accio_ ten times over again wears out after some time.

So far everything had gone normally. He did have to regulate his magic more; it seemed the Spectre had enhanced his magic quite drastically. He now had to think 'gently, easy, just breathe' even when casting an _accio._ It wasn't a hard thing to learn though, so after the first time when his vase had broken, he'd delimited his force behind the spell, and the vase had come drifting towards him smoothly.

Some life came back to him, however, as Hermione said from his left: "Okay, I think we can move on to Patronuses now."

He opened his eyes fully, turning around to stare at her. "You're sure? That isn't in the curriculum, you know. And we're only at fourth year."

Hermione smiled. "Funny that you're keeping track. Well, yes, I figured it would be safer to start with the basics, and I think it's worked. You're practically asleep on your feet, so I think we've drained you and your magic enough to move on to the more complex spells now. So far you are doing great, by the way."

Harry wanted to flush, for some strange reason. "Well, yeah. But we've only been doing first to third year, I think it's to be expected."

A slight shadow of the Look ghosted over her face again. "Yeah, but, Harry. Think about all I've said. You've got enough magic to fuel two people now. That makes a big change, you know. For someone whose magic has just doubled – if not tripled – you're doing extraordinarily well."

Harry raised his shoulders. He wasn't the best with compliments. "Well, okay. Let's do it then."

He didn't notice Hermione giving him an exasperated glance as he turned around, ready to cast his Patronus into the room.

_Okay Harry, easy going, nothing too big_, he told himself before he said, almost incomprehensibly: "Expecto Patronum."

He hadn't expected his fully corporeal Patronus to appear, much less what happened next. He narrowed his eyes, looking intently at the stag. It wasn't just one stag anymore. Instead of the one usual graceful stag, solitary in his own unique shape, there now trailed an almost invisible, much more translucent replica behind it. The two stags walked with the same grace, took exactly the same elegant steps around the room. Harry gaped.

"Well, I hadn't expected that," Hermione said softly from his side. "I'd expected something to happen, yes, but not this."

Harry let his eyes trail after the two for a few more seconds, then ended the spell. He turned around.

Hermione was looking thoughtfully at the spot where the animals had disappeared. "I guess this shows, once again, that the Spectre truly is an extension of yourself, not some different creature altogether. No one, no one in the world has exactly the same Patronus. But you and the Spectre have. Which means that you're, basically, the same person."

"'We' aren't the same person," Harry said, looking at his wand that was still raised. He lowered it quickly. "I am the creature. You don't need to see it as something that lives beside me and looks like me. I'm Harry, and a creature too."

Hermione whistled through her teeth, then she laughed. "My, my, Harry. When'd you become so wise?"

He hadn't. Draco had told him that. It was Draco who'd, at the end of the day, made him realise he was being stupid, and just accept the fact that this wasn't going to change, so he might as well stop denying it.

"Overnight," he told her sharply, then he asked, "So, any explanation?"

Hermione's incredible brain was already going a hundred a second, Harry could see that much. He waited, knowing she'd heard him. She just had to formulate an answer that Harry could understand.

"Well, what I said before," she said after a minute. "But it's hard, though. I know you're telling the truth, that you're 'Harry-a-creature-Potter', but that doesn't explain…"

Okay, so maybe he wouldn't get a satisfying answer, but her mind was still working over hours."Well, it doesn't really matter anyway. T'is how it is, as someone used to say," he said, before her wits exploded.

She looked dismayed that she hadn't figured it out completely, but quickly got over it. "So, any other spells me could try?"

Harry shrugged. He was doing that a lot these days. "You're the teacher here, not me."

"Too right," she muttered, then grinned lightly. "How about wards? I read something about Spectres having a knack for wards."

_That explains everything_, Harry thought ironically, then nodded to her. "Yeah, right. Okay. Let's do it…. What'd you want me to do?"

She laughed and he felt stupid. "Well, how about a silence-ward? Try _silentio __firmamento_ around me. Then make some noise and I'll see if I can hear anything."

He did, and marvelled over his new-found abilities at ward-casting. He had never been good at them; during the Horcrux-hunt, he'd almost always let Hermione do them. Now, though… he almost didn't have to think about it. He didn't have to say anything either, he realised when he recognised he hadn't uttered a word to make the quite strong looking ward.

And, he noticed as he narrowed his eyes to make sure he wasn't imagining things, he could _see_ the ward. Formerly, he'd only seen them as they were being formed, but now, with the ward already in place, he could see a white-silver dome around Hermione. Also, if he looked closely, he could see thin silver lines intercepting and connecting to make a dense cupola, the magic of it swirling around.

Hermione couldn't see it, obviously, as she asked (or rather, mouthed) _have you put it up yet?_

Harry nodded, and raised his wand. He braced himself, then said _sonum sublimis_. A loud bang shook the furniture in the room. Harry cringed.

Hermione nodded, and mouthed _okay, take it down_.

Harry did so with only a sweep of his hand. It felt right. The ward wasn't some sort of complicated magic; to him, it felt as if he was asked to build a block tower, a feat any three year old could pull off.

"Okay. I think we can be certain you have a knack for wards," said Hermione as soon as she noticed Harry'd already taken the ward down. "Wandless and wordless magic. Very impressive, Harry. Especially when doing the _firmamento _charm. That's not an easy one."

"Well," he said, "it feels quite easy to me. Doesn't take any energy or concentration really."

Hermione smiled at him. Harry didn't see what she found amusing. "Great," she said, turning serious again. "How about I set up the most powerful ward I can, and you try to take it down. Let's see if you've got any talents for dismantling unidentified wards too."

Harry, of course, already knew he did. He'd taken down Byrne's own ward, and Byrne wasn't a lesser witch. But he couldn't tell Hermione that without having to tell her why he'd taken it down in the first place.

Hermione cast a strong ward, looking very concentrated on creating the most durable one she could, after telling Harry to cover his ears so he couldn't hear what spell she was saying. Which didn't really matter, because he could feel the magic of it washing over him like some gentle stream of water. _Et__fac__tenent_, was the charm she'd used. Even though Harry had never encountered such a ward in his life, he knew it like he knew his own name.

Hermione nodded and he took his hands off his ears, trying to look thoughtful.

"All right. Go on and try. I've put it around the chairs."

Harry closed his eyes. He didn't really know what he was going to do, he was acting mainly on instinct. But it wasn't very hard. He _knew_ the ward. Knew it as if it had been his best friend for all his life. He grasped lightly at the magic, and knew he had the power to do anything he wanted with it. He could reshape it, could bend it to his will, could make it stronger, could make it disappear, could make it grow and diminish.

He smiled. He didn't really care if he looked slightly demonic that way, because he felt _great_. Never had he felt magic like this. Magic had always been something incomprehensibly, something a human's mind could never understand. But then again, he wasn't a human any longer, was he? No, this magic was his. He knew how it worked, could feel every slither of it travelling around the place.

He was so caught up in his thoughts and new-found skills for wards, that once Hermione tapped him softly on the back, he jumped a little. He opened his eyes and swept the ward away with a neglecting hand. It was nothing to him.

"Well, I must admit myself impressed," she said. "I assume you are too?"

Harry nodded, feeling somewhat dazed. "I have never felt anything like that. It's amazing, Hermione, I can sense everything. That magic is _mine_, I can virtually do anything I want with it."

She pulled a funny face. "If only you'd've got this power before the war ended. That could've been so useful."

Harry didn't answer. The war had ended some time ago for some people, but to him it felt as if it had only ended yesterday. Everything was ingrained on his retinas, he could still see it as if he was there at the very moment. He realised he had to move on some day, but so many lives were lost those days. How could he move on from that?

"I'm sorry," Hermione said, and Harry realised he had been quiet for too long. "That wasn't a really tactful statement."

Harry shook his head. "No, you don't have to apologise. I should just move on from all of that. I know that."

Hermione strode forward quickly, and Harry was afraid she was going to grab him by the shoulders any second now, and shake him. She had a very intense look in her eye. "No Harry. Don't you see? Any lesser man or woman would've collapsed after everything you've been through. You didn't. I think you're allowed to linger a bit over the war for that. Who says you've got to move on anyway? Who made up that stupid rule?"

Harry shrugged. "Probably someone who thought wars were games, were exciting. Or a psychiatrist."

"Or both."

"Or both."

* * *

Harry had gotten back to the hospital wing before the two hour deadline, for which he was grateful, because he wouldn't like to spend three hours in detention.

It was after he had laid his wand down on his nightstand, that he realised he felt great. Even better than that time he had released all of his magic in here; probably because he had felt incredibly guilty about that.

It was lunchtime, so he called a house-elf. They – he wasn't sure if they were a male or female house-elf – took his order eagerly, and he recognised he'd probably end up with five times as much food than he had asked for. Ah well. He was too thin anyway.

Well, no, that wasn't true. He had filled out remarkably well for someone who'd suffered traumas times ten. Even he could appreciate and admit that. His too-thin frame had transformed into a young man's body, complete with added extras such as deep collarbones and broad chest. He thought it suited him.

And Draco had grown too, for that matter. Draco hadn't necessarily become more muscular, but he had grown to be more than six feet. Where Harry had gotten broad and well-built, Draco had elongated – if you could call it that – and had become more slender. Harry was rather short and compact, whereas Draco was tall, slim and supple.

_It's so that his ego fits inside his head_, thought Slytherin Harry. He grinned.

His house-elf popped back in with a tray full of food, which Harry was never going to be able to finish. He didn't even care, he felt that good.

He ate and sighed serenely from time to time.

But he should've known the good mood wouldn't be for nothing. The universe always wanted something in return from him. The cosmic powers never allowed Harry Potter to have one moment of peace. Ah well. Such was his life.

The doors were knocked open, and Madam Pomfrey rushed in. Harry looked up, sandwich halfway to his mouth, shocked that she could move so quickly, but sobered when he saw her face. It was anxious, and Madam Pomfrey is _never_ anxious. Was she?

"It's mister Malfoy, dear. I'm afraid he's been… taken."

Harry froze.


	6. Chapter 11 and 12

**Chapter Eleven**  
**Following**

"Hey, Draco, how about this one?"

Draco looked up disinterestedly, looking blandly at the silver necklace Blaise had picked up.

"No, it's too boring," he said dismissively, "my mother wants something special, not some ordinary necklace," he explained, continuing his journey along the countless rows of jewellery.

_Why would women even want to wear all this silver stuff? _He asked himself, rubbing his eyes for a moment.

He had left Harry this morning after telling him everything was perfectly okay between them, and then he'd picked up Blaise and Pansy. They had left Goyle behind, who said he'd needed to study. And he probably did, because eight year wasn't an easy year, even for Draco. For Goyle, it must be torture. The poor guy really wasn't the brightest.

The journey to Hogsmeade was cold and windy, but they had eventually made it, tumbling into the Three Broomsticks first chance they got. The wind outside was harsh and hit them bluntly in the guts; it had made them stoop, trying to shield their bodies from the uncouth shoves of air. The warmth and merriness of the Broomsticks was a welcomed change from the barren outdoors.

They had some drinks before he had announced he needed to get his mother a present. Christmas was fast approaching, after all.

Of course, Pansy had been delighted, and had jumped up before Draco had even finished his drink, dragging him with her to the nearest jewellery shop.

However much this may surprise some people, Draco was not a good shopper. At least, not for women-stuff. It all looked like each other, which was what made picking the one special piece quite a difficult deed. The amounts of silver necklaces with some simple pendant on them, had to be sky-high. And then you had the silver necklaces with a _big_ pendant on them, but that wasn't appropriate either. But he could find nothing in-between.

He sighed, strolling further down the lane of glittering pieces of complete worthlessness. Perhaps he should just get her something else. A nice robe, or something. It was going to be freezing soon, after all, and she'd have to tend to the gardens, even during wintertime. Actually, come to think of it, that wasn't such a bad idea at all.

"Hey, guys?" he asked, raising his voice to carry over the rows of shining paraphernalia, but they weren't listening. They were looking at some golden bracelet, pointing at it and whispering amongst themselves. He hurriedly left the shop before they could call 'hey Draco, and this one then?' one more time.

The door jingled as he exited. He looked over his shoulder, seeing little Christmas bells hanging over it. _Well, that's a little early_, he thought scornfully, _it's only November after all_.

Through the window, he noticed Pansy and Blaise looking at the door thoughtfully, probably wondering if it was him who had left. He decided to let them figure it out for themselves.

Slowly, the blond-haired boy walked towards the store he knew sold the best clothes. Unfortunately, it was a little separated from the rest of the town, which meant he'd have to face the unforgiving wind again, which was not something he looked forward to, so he pulled his cloak tighter around himself, cowering slightly to keep himself warmer. _That's not how Malfoys walk_, was what his father would say.

Still, the wind hit him full in the face the second he turned the corner to the isolated store. Only a few people were walking down this road, quite a change from the student-filled Hogsmeade. He shivered.

The first indication that something wasn't right appeared when he could hear footsteps behind him, but when he turned to look discreetly, there was no one there. Frowning, he continued walking, but the hairs at the back of his neck stood upright; something odd was going on here.

A rustle of fabric that came from behind him made him turn around again. The road leading to Hogsmeade was deserted. A few people walked ahead of him, but they didn't seem to notice him. They were walking quickly, arms around themselves, shielding their bodies from the demanding wind.

Draco began to feel really uneasy now. He squinted, trying to see if someone with, perhaps, a disillusionment charm was walking behind him; you could always see the slight contours of the person's body if they had. He saw nothing.

There was no cover. There were no trees or bushes. The only thing he could do was keep walking, speedily.

He set off, a quick pace, making the wet cobbles underneath his feet rattle.

After a few moments he concluded he couldn't hear anything anymore, and dropped his – unconsciously – raised shoulders.

He reached the store without any further incidents. _Rowles' Excellent Robes and General Wizardwear, _it said with elegant sliver letters above the store's entrance. Draco sighed, relieved to have reached a safe haven. He hadn't heard anymore footsteps, but he'd been worried all the same.

_Perhaps I'm just getting paranoid_, he thought to himself as he opened the store's big glass door. The shop was warm and looked cosy, so he released his death grip on his robes, letting them fall loosely across his shoulders.

"Can I help you, young man?" asked the old man behind the counter. He was grey and balding, the remaining hair on his head dirty and oily, but his eyes sparkled with an intensity only second to Dumbledore's. He wore rather plain clothes himself; not something you'd expect of a man who owned a clothing store.

Draco cleared his throat. "Yes, actually. I'm looking for robes for my mother. As a present. Preferably some warm ones, she needs to be able to wear them when tending to the gardens," he said absently, while turning to scan the rows of black, grey and the occasional coloured robes.

The man nodded to himself. "Oh yes, Mrs Malfoy. Nice lady, of course."

Draco frowned at the man, looking up from his scanning. Did he know her? Even if he did, he didn't sound very happy about it. He had certainly identified him accurately, at any rate. Nowadays, that could often be either bad, or good news.

"Yes, of course," he said matter-of-factly, as he walked towards the row of grey and silver winter robes, rifling through them. "I was thinking grey."

The man walked over to him. There were no other customers in the store, and Draco wondered where the other people that had walked ahead of him had gone.

"Oh yes. Working in the gardens, you said?" the man asked and Draco nodded. "I do have some charmed robes, they are quite a sight, I must say."

Draco perked up. "Oh? Charmed how?"

The man nodded enthusiastically, walking quickly over to the row with the robes he'd mentioned. "Oh, you know. Warming-spells and rain and cold-repelling. Just the thing you'd need during the winter."

He rifled through the racks until he found one he apparently liked. "How about this one? Nice and soft. And grey, as you requested. Very ladylike."

Draco nodded thoughtfully. "Hm. Yes, I believe mother'd like those. How much?"

"115 galleons."

"115 galleons?" Draco asked harshly. That wasn't nothing for just a robe. He supposed he understood now why the man had looked so bloody happy to show him these.

The man shrugged, not looking at Draco. "Quality doesn't come without a price, Mr Malfoy. I'm sure you, of all people, would understand."

"Well, no, I suppose it doesn't. But then, is that just for all the spells on there?"

The man shrugged again. "Yes. And the fabric, of course. Very nice stuff."

Draco sighed. The robe was truthfully very nice. It'd be a shame not to buy it. "Well. Okay then."

The man lit up instantly, looking Draco in the eye now, opposed to guiltily staring out of his store's windows. "Very good, Mr Malfoy. Very good choice indeed."

Draco paid the man, sad to see his galleons end up in the hands of the smarmy shopkeeper. Well, it was for the greater good, after all. If you could count Christmas presents to the greater good. Maybe in Narcissa Malfoy's case, you could.

Having bought the robes made Draco realise he'd have to face the weather again. He looked sombrely out of the glass windows.

"Something wrong?" asked the shopkeeper.

Draco shook his head, and then opened the door. He let it fall shut loudly behind him.

He never saw the two men, dressed in black, approach him. He only realised something was definitely, irrevocably wrong as he felt the sickly pull of a portkey behind his navel.

He landed hard on his feet, his ankles cracking and almost giving away. He only got a little glance of his surroundings, before he was hit on the head and darkness took him.

* * *

"It's mister Malfoy, dear. I'm afraid he's been… taken."

Harry stared at her, frozen. He knew what she was saying, he knew very well what she meant, but he couldn't figure out how to react, so he chose not to react at all. He looked at her blankly, his mouth opening just a little bit.

How could he not have known this? He should have felt something, he always felt something when Draco was in danger. He always felt something when Draco was distressed, or anxious. Had he been abducted too quickly for him to notice what was going on? Or had he gone voluntarily? No, that sounded ridiculous.

He decided to get some more information first, before he went off and made the wrong conclusions.

He sucked in a deep breath, body suddenly jumping back to life. "What? What do you mean; taken?"

Madam Pomfrey looked around awkwardly, and took a long time to answer - time Harry didn't have.

"Well?" He snapped.

She blinked, seeming to be shaken out of her stupor. "We don't know exactly. What we do know is that he went to Hogsmeade, with Miss Parkinson and Mr Zabini. Miss Parkinson told us they lost him while they were looking for jewellery; Christmas presents. They went after him when they realised he'd taken off without them, but instead they found a frantic shopkeeper."

Harry rapidly tried to take all of the information in, but it was a bit overwhelming. "A shopkeeper?"

The nurse nodded. "Yes. He's in the castle now. He said Mr Malfoy was in his store, buying a robe for his mother. When Mr Malfoy left again and was halfway down the path back to Hogsmeade, he was portkeyed away by two men in black, apparently by force."

Harry's mind was whirling, trying to figure out everything at the same time.

Draco was gone. Two men had captured him, and a storekeeper had been watching. Draco had left his friends behind in Hogsmeade. Draco had been shopping for a Christmas present… that was weird, it was a bit early for that, wasn't it?

Draco was gone.

If they didn't find him soon, that would pose major problems for Harry. Not only would he go completely berserk because someone had dared to touch his mate, but he needed Draco to keep him healthy as well; he didn't do well without him, he'd realised that the hard way.

"Are you all right, dear?" He heard Madam Pomfrey say, cutting through his well-built fortress of churning thoughts. "You are looking a bit pale."

"Don't you mean a bit silver?" Harry asked, but he wasn't really thinking about what he was saying. He was thinking frantically, trying to figure out a way to know where Draco was.

Harry watched Pomfrey trying to pull off a smile, but she didn't really get it right.

"Yes, that too," she said sadly. "I'm sorry, Harry. We don't know who they were. We don't know where he is."

So, they didn't know anything. Harry didn't know anything either. Why hadn't he felt anything? _Why _hadn't he?

"So we're just going to leave him die," Harry said flatly. He wasn't thinking clearly though, he was focussing on Draco, trying with all his might to reach him, even though he had no idea how to. He could feel the bond, however, like some forgotten cable in the back of his head, but it didn't respond. It was lifeless.

Pomfrey moved forward sharply, appearing as if she wanted to grasp him by the shoulders. He moved back a little, just in case. "No," she said sharply. "Of course not. We've got the storekeeper here, we're trying everything we can to get some useful information out of him-"

"And what's that? That useful information?" Harry asked abruptly, interrupting her.

"Well, he described their clothes, what the men looked like. We could search for them."

"But you just said you didn't know who they were," Harry said, while turning around to grab his robes.

"Yes, but that doesn't mean- where do you think you're going, Mr Potter?"

Harry turned around, trying to look innocent, but all the rapidly dancing thoughts inside his head made it hard for him to focus. "To McGonagall's office. I presume that's where the storekeeper is at?"

The nurse opened her mouth. Probably to object, Harry thought. But, after a few moments she closed it again, her face looking pinched. She nodded.

Harry nodded back, not trying to make sense of what had just happened. He strode out of the infirmary, trusting his legs to know the way to the Headmistress office, while he brainstormed.

Draco had been taken by two men, dressed in black. And who said they were men, actually? _Yeah,__that's sexism_, he thought wryly, _let women have a chance of being a criminal too._

His thoughts were briskly shifting back and forth. One moment he'd have to control the urge to let his fangs down, and the next he'd be trying to think rationally. Trying.

Maybe Zabini had played some prank on him. But no, he was already back at the school. And according to Pomfrey, he had been in quite a state.

Then who could it have been? It certainly couldn't have been Death Eaters. The ministry had assured everyone that all the Death Eaters were well and truly gone; either in prison or killed during or shortly after the final battle.

But what if they hadn't been? What if the ministry just wanted to create some untrue façade, a horrifying false sense of security to the people, while there were still plenty of Death Eaters running around; sneakier now, more careful? How could they be sure? Harry had no connections to the ministry anymore, besides Mr Weasley.

And why now? Did this somehow connect to Harry? Had they been less careful than they had thought, did people outside of their safely knit group already know? It was a possibility; there had been people who had seen him run around with Draco in his arms, they had even seen him with silver hair. Instead of reporting it to their friends, as Harry had imagined they would, had they reported the events to more sinister people?

Harry shook his head, trying to cease the endless questions twirling in his mind. He muttered _orange drop_ to the gargoyle in front of him – McGonagall had kept Dumbledore's obsession with candy-passwords alive, which caused Harry to behave a lot more nicely towards her than he had done in the past.

The first few months after the war hadn't been his best. So yes, he'd grown and he'd changed for the better, physically. And well, mentally too, but it had taken a while for that chance to come through. He'd felt as if he was _raw_, like he'd been scratched open like some just-healed wound, and left there bleeding sluggishly. He'd built his wall of knowledge on how to defeat Voldemort, had everything locked in place to deliver the final blow. And it felt good, when it finally did. But after that…

How does one move on from such a life-changing event? Everything Harry had lived for, was gone. He'd felt a bit sad when he realised, at the time, that his main life-goal had been defeating Riddle. He'd done that, and now what?

Other people had partied deep into the night, the ever present shadow finally gone. Harry though… He hadn't. Besides, he wasn't really a partier. He'd felt as if his sole purpose of life had been blown away, leaving nothing but empty space he didn't know how to fill.

Eventually though, things had improved. He'd realised how he could fill that hole. Just doing the things he enjoyed – Quidditch, talking to his friends, playing Exploding Snap, listening to Hermione ramble about some homework, listening to Ron ramble about Hermione…

Harry knocked the door softly, and even turned the handle before could McGonagall say 'come in!'.

He found her behind her desk, sitting primly and staring at him over small glasses. She didn't smile, but her mouth wasn't compressed into the thin rigid line he knew so well either, which was a good sign.

In front of her sat the man, dressed in black trousers with an old grey vest over it. He was shaking slightly, Harry noticed.

In the corner of the room stood Slughorn, obviously trying to be discreet and be inconspicuous, but his protruding belly made such a task quite problematic.

_Snape would've been able to pull that off like it was nothing_, a treacherous voice in Harry mind said. He told it to shut up.

"Ah, Mr Potter," McGonagall said, pushing her glasses further onto her nose. "I thought you might come. I just wasn't sure if Poppy would let you go… seem she has, though."

Harry nodded, but he didn't look at her: he was staring at the man who sat shivering in his chair in front of the Headmistress. He was not a pretty sight: he was rather oily - literally: his hair lay flat on his head, obviously not combed, let alone washed; his clothes were dirty; his large boots were covered with dirt. Not a person you'd expect to own a clothing store.

He wasn't sure what to think about the man. He seemed genuine enough: he'd scrambled to get the news to them as quickly as possible, but he just didn't fit with his profession.

"This is Mr Rowles. I don't know if Poppy has informed you on everything before you went storming off?" McGonagall asked, but her voice was soft instead of harsh.

Harry nodded.

"Good. I was just going to ask Mr Rowles to tell us one more time what happened exactly."

Harry nodded again, thinking she'd just hurry up instead of placate him like some eleven-year-old boy.

"Mr Rowles, if you please?"

The man nodded and told the story again. Harry listened, but he had to try hard to stay focussed. The creature inside of him wanted to find Draco so bad, it was difficult not to run out and just look for him himself.

In fact, that wasn't such a bad idea after all… He had a better sense of smell and direction than anyone else in this room. He knew how to find Draco like no one could. Perhaps he was, once again, the only one cut for the job.

He was still thinking as he felt his feet slowly turning away from the desk, and started walking towards the large wooden door.

He thought he heard McGonagall ask sharply: "Mr Potter, where exactly do you think you are going?"

He didn't answer her. When he was downstairs he realised he just couldn't exist without Draco; he'd be lying ill in a hospital bed within three days. He could find him. He would find him. He had to.

Harry finally let down his fangs, the snap of them coming down sounding satiating to his ears. He breathed in deeply before he ran off, hearing quick footsteps behind him, but knowing they'd never catch up.

Harry Potter would find Draco Malfoy, no matter what it took.

* * *

**Chapter Twelve  
****Searching**

A frantic and not-in-control Hermione Granger wasn't something one could find often, but you sure could right now. In fact, a few people were left staring after her as she raced through Hogwarts' cold November halls.

She burst into the Headmistress' office at precisely 9 o'clock in the evening, and found McGonagall sitting primly behind her desk, writing something down, and she didn't look very surprised to see her. Hermione wondered why.

"Professor McGonagall! Harry's not in the hospital wing, and I couldn't find him anywhere else either! Madam Pomfrey told me to go to your office. What's happened?" She asked, not having time to draw breaths in-between.

She grew even more agitated when McGonagall's only reaction was to starchily fold her hands over each other.

"Perhaps you'd better get Mr Weasley up here too," was the only thing she said, and Hermione wanted to ask so many questions, but at this point it was glaringly obvious something had happened, so all she did was nod, her eyes searching – squinting - for any hints in the Headmistress's face, but she didn't find any, and then ran off to Gryffindor Tower again.

She raced through the halls yet again, her hair flying wildly behind her, the neat braid long forgotten. Her feet almost didn't make a sound, as if she was moving too fast for them to make proper contact with the ground.

"_Rubrum uincit_," she told the portrait rapidly. It seemed The Fat Lady realised Hermione was in a hurry, because she swung open without asking questions, and without her usual irritated rumbling about uncivilized students.

Luckily, Ronald was nearby. He was sitting by the fire, playing chess with Dean. Dean seemed to be sorely losing, judging by his confounded stare at the board, a deep crease in his brow betraying bewilderment.

They both looked up sharply when Hermione burst into the Common Room, as well a few other students who were there. Hermione didn't pay any attention to them.

"Ron. Come with me. Now," she said, then turned around again, leaving before Ron could say anything.

Hermione knew he'd have thousands of questions, but she knew better than to wait for him to voice them all. It would do better just to have him follow her. Sure, that wouldn't stop him from asking questions, but at least he would ask them while they were walking.

"Hermione, where are we going?"

Despite the seriousness of the situation she smiled a little bit. She knew him too well.

She slowed down a bit, waiting for Ron to catch up, then started walking again at a brisk pace, but not as fast as before.

"We're going to McGonagall's," she said over her shoulder, getting a glimpse of Ron's astonished face.

She heard the footsteps behind her speed up a little.

"Um, okay. And the reason we're going there, is…?"

"The reason we're going there is something's up with Harry," she said slowly, and felt, rather than heard, Ron's sharp intake of breath.

He jogged, until he ended up walking next to her. "What's up with Harry? What's wrong with him?"

Hermione shrugged, but she didn't look at Ron, she kept her gaze fixed on the steps of the sharp stairs. "McGonagall's going to tell us that. All I know is that he's not in the hospital wing."

"What?" She heard Ron say sharply. She didn't reply, mainly because she didn't know either.

They reached the gargoyles, out of breath, but otherwise fine. Hermione told them the password, and they quickly climbed the winding stairs up to the office.

She didn't even bother knocking, knowing McGonagall was expecting them anyway. She knew she received a strange look from Ron for doing so.

McGonagall was still sitting behind her desk in the same manner as she had been when Hermione had left to get Ron. She nodded once. "Ms Granger, Mr Weasley, please take a seat. There's a lot of explaining to do."

Hermione swallowed thickly, knowing that was never a good sign. But, at least McGonagall wasn't freaking out, so that meant Harry wasn't in danger, right?

"First off, I must ask you something important," she said, and Hermione propelled on to the very front of her seat, silently begging the professor just to get on with it. "How much do you know about Harry's mate?"

It was silent. Hermione frowned to herself, then looked at Ron who was just staring dumbly at McGonagall.

Hermione cleared her throat, deciding to ignore him for now. "Well, I know the Spectre needs to have a mate to stabilise them. Why?"

McGonagall looked pained for a moment, and rubbed her hands over her eyes, muttering something that sounded like: "oh dear."

Hermione grew even more agitated, trying very hard to stay in her seat. "Why, professor?" She asked again, more insistently now.

McGonagall removed her hands from her face. "Harry hasn't told you anything, has he?"

Hermione's frown was becoming more prominent by the second. Ron was at the point where he had just given up trying to make sense of everything. "Told us about what?"

McGonagall sighed deeply, looking as if she was preparing herself for something big, as if she was going to jump into an ice-cold swimming pool any second now, but didn't really want to. "Harry has already found his mate."

Again, the office was silent, except for the soft breaths from the dozens of portraits on the walls.

Hermione was the first to recover. "No, he hasn't. He'd tell us! I know he would."

Ron seemed to have shaken himself from his stupor, when he yelled – or rather roared -: "What?! What are you talking about?! Could someone please tell me what's going on!"

Hermione closed her eyes and sighed deeply. She hadn't even told Ron yet. She had wanted to, but with everything that had happened, she'd simply forgotten about it. She turned to face Ron, her face serious and begging no protest. "Ron, Spectres need mates, Harry is a Spectre, and he is suddenly missing. Please, just accept the fact that they need mates, at least for now, and let's listen to McGonagall. Please."

Ron took a few moments to look torn, his eyes flicking from McGonagall to Hermione, and back again. After half a minute he nodded, a frown on his face.

The Headmistress smiled gently. "Very good. As I was saying, Harry has already found his mate. I will leave it to him to tell you exactly who it is, but I will tell you this: Harry's mate has gone missing."

Despite the fact that Hermione didn't even know who Harry's mate was, she folded her hands over her mouth, shocked.

"What do you mean, missing?" She asked, eyes wide.

"His mate was forcibly taken when shopping in Hogsmeade," McGonagall said, her face grave. "Harry, of course, was distraught, and has gone after the persons who did it - trying to find them - and his mate."

Hermione looked at her, making sure she was telling the complete truth. She was, Hermione could see it. Then she looked at Ron. He was staring at McGonagall as if he too was trying to find out if she wasn't just playing some joke on them, and Harry was just hiding behind her chair. But he seemed to realise that she wasn't and Harry wasn't hiding in odd places, and he turned to look at Hermione, in the same way she was looking at him now.

Hermione coughed, trying to make her throat work. "That's a lot to take in," she said softly.

McGonagall nodded. "I understand that very well, Miss Granger. If you wish, I could just leave you two alone for a second."

Hermione instantly shook her head. "No. No, of course not. Harry… Harry's out there, possibly in danger. We can't just sit here, doing nothing productive. We have to go after him!"

She made to stood up, her mind suddenly and conclusively set on finding out where her best friend was, when McGonagall shook her head and waved her hand at her to sit down again.

"I don't think that would be wise. We have more capable people working on finding out Harry's whereabouts right now: people who can track wands, and the like. There's no point trying to scourge all of Scotland, as Mr Potter could be anywhere."

During all of this Ron had been suspiciously quiet. Hermione looked at him out of the corner of her eye, and jumped a little when he suddenly cleared his throat, in the same way she had done just moments before.

"I agree with Hermione," he said, looking slightly uncertain. "I think we should go and help search for him. At least, we could be doing something, instead of just sitting here."

Hermione nodded, agreeing with Ronald.

As she looked at McGonagall, seeing her torn between doing what's right, and what she'd really want to do, she wondered… why hadn't Harry told them he already knew who it was? Had he just found out? Or was it perhaps someone he thought they wouldn't agree with? No, that didn't sound very Harry-like. Well, it could be… if the girl was a Slytherin. Then Hermione could understand why he wanted to refrain from telling them, at least for now.

Or perhaps she was really ugly. Or perhaps… it was one of the teachers – no, she was contradicting herself. She'd told Harry not long before that mates always tended to be around the same age. At least, magically-linked mates. Their cores needed to be similar, which wasn't the case with an 18-year-old boy and a ninety-year-old woman, so to speak.

So then, either he had just found out, or it was someone whom he didn't want to tell them about. The latter was more plausible, considering Harry at least needed to have known the person when they were out in Hogsmeade, because he was here in the castle, spending time with… herself.

Oh. Yeah. Harry had to have known already by that time, which leaves only one option. Harry hadn't dared to tell her who his mate was. Hermione knew he probably had his reasons, but it still hurt a bit.

And now he was gone, and she didn't even know who they were looking for, besides Harry. It was crazy, really. Oh well.

She refocused on McGonagall, who seemed to have made her mind up. "Okay," she was saying. "Okay, I suggest you join Professor Slughorn and the two Aurors downstairs. They are in the dungeons. I trust you'll find your way?"

Hermione took a brief moment to process the fact that Harry had Aurors looking for him, before she nodded and forcibly dragged Ronald down with her to the dungeons.

* * *

The dungeons were cold. They always were. Somehow, Hermione thought it was a great parallel to the iciness of the Slytherins' hearts. Like that Malfoy for example; always so slick, so _charismatic_, yet, when confronted, he always made the wrong choice, he always chose for the easy way out, no matter how many people could end up hurt that way. He was made of ice, and Hermione didn't like him.

Ron was sitting beside her, and seemed to be having a hard time coming to terms with, and processing everything that had just happened. He had always needed some more time for such things. Hermione knew this, and was very proud of the accomplishments he had shown today already: just the fact that he didn't explode when he heard about the news, and the fact that he took it in stride – at least, for now – was a huge victory for him. Hermione inwardly cheered for him.

She didn't cheer for him outwardly though, and neither did she otherwise make her gratitude for his behaviour show. Because the Aurors, who were currently trying to find out Harry's whereabouts, were running some complicated spells, and they had been instructed to be absolutely quiet. So they were.

The Aurors had almost denied them entrance. Never mind the fact that they had helped protect the world from its definite ending, the Aurors simply wouldn't let them in. They had said that they didn't need two teenagers interfering, and ruining their investigation. They had just been about to throw the door back into Hermione's and Ron's face, when Slughorn, bless him, had come booming towards them.

He had explained they could actually be of some help, and he had said they weren't just _some_ teenagers, no, they were 'one of the most pristine and studious teenagers he had ever had the pleasure to meet'.

So yeah, Hermione thought, Slughorn might actually be a decent actor too. And well, Slughorn wasn't a Slytherin for nothing. They had a way of getting what they wanted.

So now they were here, sitting beside each other, silent as the grave. Hermione wanted to ask the two Aurors so many questions, but she managed to keep her mouth shut.

It took a few more minutes before one of the Aurors said: "Okay, we've got something."

Hermione whooped.

The two Aurors looked at her disapprovingly.

* * *

Draco woke and groaned. It was dark around him. His head ached, along with almost all of his muscles. The world felt as if it was tilting at a dangerous level. He decided to stay exactly where he was, at least just for now.

He found out why everything was so shadowy; his eyes were shut, he could only see through tiny cracks, his lashes obscuring most of the view. He slowly reached up to touch his eye, and hissed quietly when his hand met with warm and swollen flesh. He touched the other side of his face, his other eye, and encountered the same thing.

Great then, two black eyes. As if one wasn't enough.

He was lying on the floor, which was uncomfortable. His head was resting on a piece of broken rock, the hard edges of it digging in the back of his head. He could feel liquid slowly trickling from the back of his head, onto the floor, where it made a dull thud every time it hit the stone ground.

So, the back of his head wasn't any better than the front.

It hurt to breath. His muscles ached, and whenever he tried to take a deep breath, a dull throbbing in his abdomen made itself known. Come to think of it… yeah, it was probably a broken rib, along with painful muscles. He just couldn't take a deep breath, all he could do was inhale rapidly and let it out just as quickly.

It resulted in making him feel lightheaded, from the quick and insufficient breathing he was doing.

After a few minutes he tried moving his head a little to the side, just to see if he was alone. He could only see vague shadows, nothing distinctive, but he didn't think there was anyone else in the room besides him.

Mustering his courage, he tried moving a little. His body protested, but he knew he needed to find out what was going on. He remembered being portkeyed, but after that… had they knocked them unconscious? Or had he just forgotten about what had happened next, maybe because of too many blows to the head?

The movement had caused his ribs to protest, and he desperately wanted to grasp his sides just to make it stop, but he knew that would only worsen things. So, he ended up lying still on the scratchy floor again, little rocks making dents along his back and legs.

He sighed. "Shit."

What would his father do? Lucius Malfoy could have already escaped by the time Draco was still figuring out what the hell was going on. But he wasn't his dad, though. He couldn't think in basic survival, and do whatever it took to get out of here, using means that some would consider far above the average skill-grade of a wizard. No, _he_ just wanted to know what was going on. Then he'd see what he could do about it. He had always been more of a talker, than an action kind-of-guy. Right? And anyway, he didn't possess skills like his father: the ability to get out of any sticky situation, the ability to manipulate people simply by talking to them.

_Assess and consider, Draco,_ he could hear his father say, his father's voice steady and strong, _don't let them know you've woken up already. Always be steps ahead. Being one step ahead could save your sorry arse, being ten steps ahead could make you master of the situation. And, Draco, you _always _want to be master. Always._

Yeah, that might not have been a correct statement from his father, considering he hadn't always been master either. That was the reason he is in jail right now.

But if moving was out of question, how could he ever stay at least one step ahead of whomever had captured him? He couldn't fight them. He couldn't manipulate them, because, yeah, he might be good with words, but manipulation? That was whole different matter.

It seemed like the only thing he could do was to lie still, and figure out what was going on that way. Like a cat, high in a tree, observing the mice below, without the mice ever being the wiser, until the cat leapt, and then it would already be too late for the poor mice.

Draco stiffened when he heard footsteps. The footsteps were heavy, presumably a male's. It also sounded as if there were two of them. That was rotten luck. He couldn't even fight one person, let alone two.

"Bryan, take this, would you?" One of the men's voices said.

The voice wasn't very heavy, and Draco figured the man must be in his twenties or thirties still. He sounded quite young, remarkably.

"Why?"

"Because. Anyway, it was your stupid idea to leave him alone, I swear if he's gone now…"

The footsteps could be heard rounding the corner, and the men must now be looking into the room were Draco was lying.

There was a pause, and then the man who had spoken secondly spoke smugly: "Told you. I hit him on the head hard enough for him to be out-cold for at least four hours. He isn't getting up soon."

The men walked into the room, and Draco opened his eyes just the tiniest bit. He could see a small man, probably the first one who talked. Next to him was a larger man, Bryan, who was muscled and tall. If Draco would be to fight his way out, that guy could be seriously problematic.

The two men sat down on the floor, backs against the wall. They both sighed.

"This is total bullshit. The kid's knocked out, why do have to watch him? For all we know he's dead already."

"No," said the guy who was not Bryan. "He's still breathing, see? He isn't dead. He simply got hit on the head, he won't die from that. And he's going to wake up, soon. You'll see."

Bryan sighed heavily. "Well, I don't think so. I think he's going to sleep quite a while longer, which makes this job totally unnecessary. We could be doing useful things right now."

It was silent, and Draco tried to regulate his breathing. But his broken rib and his sore muscles made it hard to breathe normally. But he had to, in order to keep up his act.

He just wished Potter would be here right now. Potter would know what to do. He would be brave, would fight those guys, whoever they were. He wouldn't keep lying on the ground, uselessly.

But who were these men? Death-eaters? Some assassin types? Well, if they were assassins, they were doing a poor job of murdering him. Then what? Light-side fanatics? Surely not, their morals were too high to do something like this.

Or maybe, this had to do with the whole Spectre thing. How many people knew already? Word spreads fast, but hadn't Draco told Harry himself that 'everything's fine, no one knows'? But what if there _had_ been people who knew, and had passed it on to more dangerous individuals, instead of their Hufflepuffy friends?

What if these guys were Dark creature hunters? And they thought that by capturing Draco, they could capture Harry? And oh god, they were probably right.

Harry would try to come and get him. Harry wouldn't think logically, no, he would try to find Draco, and punish the people who had taken him. Because, on top of him being Harry Potter, he now also was a very dangerous Dark creature. Mix those two together, and you get piranha etch. You get a toxic solution; a guy with above standard skills and bravery, and the same guy came with a bonus which included: fangs, mad magical ability and general lethalness.

Okay, that may be right, but Harry could save him, right? It seemed that, right now, Harry was his buoy. Yeah, he could lie still and pretend to be asleep, but how far would that get him? He had to rely on Harry to actually save him. Doesn't that sound familiar?

If under other circumstances, Draco would've snorted. Now though, he kept lying perfectly still.

Well, he did, until his lower back itched.

_Great. Now's really not the time, back, _he thought ironically, _please come back later?_

But the itch didn't want to come back later, and Draco lifted his back just a centimetre, and then let it drop again, the stones on the floor effectively scratching the itch away.

It seemed his slight movement had startled the two men, and they appeared to be holding their breath, as he couldn't hear the heavy breathing from Bryan anymore. But, deciding to play it cool, he slowly turned a little more on his side, sighing a little in the process. When he reached his destination (right leg thrown over left leg, left shoulder on ground, head supported by left hand), he muttered softly: "thanks mum, lovely dinner."

His father would've been proud of him, because the two men breathed again, clearly relieved.

"I thought for a second he'd woken up already," Bryan said.

Draco could almost _hear _the smirk on the other man's face. "Oh yeah? I thought you said he'd be in a coma for at least two more years."

Bryan didn't reply, so Draco just assumed he'd shrugged his shoulders. "I just thought that maybe he had. I mean, _I_ respond to unexpected situations well."

"Oh yeah? Then how come I never noticed that before?"

"Well, maybe because your eyesight isn't great."

Inwardly, Draco sighed.

* * *

Harry's world consisted entirely of colours and smell. He couldn't make out shapes, just the general colours of his surroundings. Sometimes they'd be grey, so he'd know he was currently in a town. Another time, they'd be green, so he'd be in a forest or field.

He was running so fast that it almost felt like he was gliding, like a ghost, if not for the fact that his legs were working over-hours, trying to keep up with Harry's rapidity.

If he didn't know better, he'd think he was a vampire. In fact, if it hadn't been clear by now that he was a Spectre, they would've probably come to that conclusion: that he was some sort of bloodsucker. In any case, not a ghost-relative.

But he was, and because of that, he was now trying to scan the entire country for Draco. Because he needed Draco. Because Draco was his mate, and he didn't know what could happen to a Spectre that didn't have its mate. And because it was very probable he'd die, he was set on finding him. But that wasn't the only reason. He cared about Draco. Not just because Draco was his pre-destined mate, but also because _Harry_, not the Spectre, cared for the git. Whether that was a good or bad thing, didn't matter to Harry right now. Right now, he just wanted to find him, and punish those bloody idiots who'd taken him.

He didn't know exactly how much ground he'd covered already. It could be a dozen of miles, but it could also be just one. He didn't know, therefor, he just went on.

Now that he thought about it, it must at least have been more than _one _mile. Because he had cleared the forest around Hogwarts, and he'd probably done Hogsmeade as well. So, he must be at least some miles away from Hogwarts.

He also didn't know if there still were people following him. He supposed they were, or were at least trying to. The last thing he'd noticed was McGonagall running after him, yelling for him to stop, but he hadn't been listening at the time. Not that he would listen now, either, if she were to yell to him.

But he knew – and they probably did too – that no one could outrun Harry, except maybe a werewolf or a _real_ vampire. But he didn't know any werewolves or vampires. At least, not any of them that were alive.

Finally, Harry came to a halt. This bloody manhunt didn't seem to be very successful, mainly because he didn't actually know what he was looking for. Well, yeah, maybe a sniff of Draco's scent, but how could he know for sure that such a thing was even possible? Maybe Draco was underground, maybe his scent was already swept away by chilly November winds.

Harry clacked his fangs together, frustrated. He was standing in an open field, trees on one side of the field, even more field on the other. He didn't even know where he was. There was not a town to be seen.

What if Draco was already back at Hogwarts? What if his stupid running around had all been in vain? Sure, it had been a good frustration-outtake, but other than that…

Harry looked around one last time, before he sighed and let his head drop, chin on his breast. He didn't know what he was doing. Why couldn't his life just be easy, for once? Why couldn't he be at Hogwarts right now, watching Draco play chess with Ron…

Well, that had to be asking for too much. Even if Harry wouldn't tell Ron about how far his relations with Draco truly went, he still wouldn't want to be his friend. No, so far he'd procrastinated telling his friends about him, or even about the fact that he'd found his mate.

But, come to think about it, they probably already knew by now. They had to be worried as hell, with him not being in the hospital wing, or anywhere else. McGonagall had probably informed them by this time. Oh well, so much for a quiet year.

Harry lifted his head slightly, and turned around, ready for his walk back to Hogwarts. His shoulders slumped. He couldn't help Draco this way. He had no idea of what he was doing, but then again, professors might have some ideas on how to find him. Draco could be anywhere, and for Merlin knows how long, Harry had just been wasting his time running around like a mad dog. He could be spending his time actually tracking Draco, with magic, instead of trying to cover all of Great-Britain running.

He started walking back, before he realised he had no idea where he was. He could be miles away, tens of miles. He'd better apparate.

Yeah, he'd better, and he almost did, before he remembered it was impossible to apparate into Hogwarts. So, choosing for the next best thing, he apparated to Hogsmeade, the uncomfortable feeling making him feel queasy. It always felt like your whole body was being forced through a small drainpipe. Not very comfy.

Maybe, he thought, as he walked back to Hogwarts, down the narrow path leading to Hogsmeade, they had already found him. Maybe, Draco was at Hogwarts, indolently waiting for him to come back.

But deep down, he knew it was just wishful thinking.

A sharp pain all over his back only reinforced that feeling. He knew what he was feeling wasn't his pain. It was Draco's.

Somehow, this discovery partly relieved Harry as well. At least Draco was still alive, and conscious. It had been awfully quiet, and the fact that Harry had never felt any fear or pain from Draco, not even when he was abducted, had made him nervous.

Caught up in his discovery, he quickened his pace. It wasn't long until he arrived at McGonagall's office.

He knocked and waited.


	7. Chapter 13 and 14

**Chapter Thirteen**  
**Pansy**

A shrill _come in_ answered Harry's knock on McGonagall's door. The Headmistress's door, he reminded himself.

The change from Headmaster to Headmistress took some getting used to in the beginning. Often times the older students, who were used to saying Headmaster to the 'superintendent', embarrassed themselves by calling McGonagall the male variant of her occupation. However, the times Harry had seen this happen, all that she did was smile at them, and then wave, telling to go on with what they were trying to say. Yet, Harry could always see the sadness the smile tried to hide. It was as if McGonagall would rather they call her Headmaster than Headmistress, but Harry couldn't for the life of him figure out why. Maybe because McGonagall, too, had a hard time of never hearing that phrase again.

Harry sighed, his shoes filled with lead. He slowly opened McGonagall's door, as if by moving slower, he could soften the chiding he was about to receive.

Yeah, he already knew the drill. He had endangered himself. He had ignored orders from elders (if you could call hastily shouted complaints 'orders'), he had run off without even knowing where to go, he could have been seriously injured (because, according to earlier chastising, _there were still dangerous people out there, Mr Potter_), he could have lost his way, frozen to death, be eaten by werewolves, and they would never have known what had happened to him.

Yeah, that might be a bit over the top, but he wouldn't be surprised if some of those arguments made their way towards his eardrums. So to speak.

"Mr Potter, stop prevaricating and get in here," said the same shrill voice.

So, maybe Draco had a point, Harry though with a small smile, when he remembered:

_"I have read that book, just not… all of it."_

_"What? It isn't even that voluminous. Don't tell me I'm being chummy to an ignoramus?"_

_Harry frowned. "What's that word even mean?'_

_"Merlin save me," muttered Draco spitefully, but Harry could see he was hiding a smile. His grey eyes were sparkling, laughing, even though he tried to keep his mouth ramrod straight._

_"Well? Teach me. What's it mean?" Harry asked, leaning forward a bit._

_"It means you're an uneducated person. Oh, sorry. It means you're not-so-smart, Potter," Draco said with a smirk._

_Harry hit him on the arm. "Don't be stupid, I know what uneducated means," he said with a small laugh._

_"What're you smiling for?" asked Draco, face puzzled. "Knowing what the word 'uneducated' means isn't that big of an accomplishment, you know. Even that Creevey-bloke would know it, and that's saying something."_

Maybe Draco had a point back there… _prevaricating_. Why does that woman even insist on using words like that? Can't she speak normal 20th century English?

Harry tried to hide a snort as he fully opened the heavy door, because that _had_ sounded suspiciously like Draco, and Merlin forbid he now had a permanent mental-Draco-Malfoy inside his head.

Behind the large wooden desk, made out of wood so dark it almost seemed as if someone had tried to paint it black, sat a slightly exasperated McGonagall. Her lips were compressed into the always-present thin line, but this time, it held just a sliver of a smile. An exasperated smile, yes, but a smile nonetheless. Just to seem solidary, Harry managed a sheepish grin.

She gestured to the chair in front of her desk, made out of the same wood. If Harry had been in a different mood, he would have suggested a change of furniture. The colour and thickness of the wood gave the room a dark air, heavy.

"Mr Potter," was all she said, and Harry knew he was in big trouble. It looked as if she was searching for words, but her eyes were fixed on his, which made him baulk, and look at his shoes. "I know you are at the mercy of your instincts, but really…"

Harry looked up again, some hope restored. Maybe he wasn't going to get detention for eleven years. Maybe just five.

"…Running off like that? That was very irresponsible. Your friends were worried-"

Harry's head shot up. He hadn't even thought about Ron and Hermione after he had entered the office. And they were supposed to be his friends… well, he could forget all about that friendship, now that they knew what he had been hiding from them. If Ron already knew he was with Draco… He wouldn't be keen on calling Harry his friend anymore, would he?

"Have you told them everything?" He asked McGonagall quietly, and for a second her lips lost some of their severity.

McGonagall shook her head. "No. Well, of course, I had to tell them you had found your mate, I couldn't work my way around it otherwise. But that's all. The rest is for you to tell," she said, trying to smile, but not wholly succeeding, so instead she shrugged. The gesture didn't fit her.

Harry felt so glad they didn't know yet, that he felt the insane urge to laugh. A short, light laugh, a laugh of 'almost too good to be true'.

But on the other hand… they didn't know, so when the time came that he _did_ have to tell them, they would realise how many secrets he has been keeping from them.

So then, he wouldn't tell them. Ever.

Suddenly, Draco popped into his head. _Scared, Potter? Embarrassed because of me?_

And Harry knew, he _had_ to tell them. Maybe not now, but he did have to, eventually. After all that they have done for him, he owed them that much, the truth. But deciding not to tell yet, out of strategic aspect was better than lying, right?

But he also owed that to Draco. He wouldn't keep him under the wrappers, simply because he was afraid of what peoples' reactions might be. He had to be fair on both accounts.

Although, maybe Draco didn't _want_ anyone to find out. Maybe, he was quite happy with the way they were now; quiet, silent, secret.

Besides, all of that didn't matter, did it? Because Draco was gone, so he couldn't ask him. And if they weren't quick, maybe they wouldn't find him again. Then there was nothing left to tell.

"No, Mr Potter, I left that one for you to tell. I wasn't looking forward to an explosion from Mr Weasley, you see," she said, obviously trying to diffuse the tension. Harry smiled weakly at her for her efforts. "Anyhow, I'm not pleased with your reaction to Mr Malfoy's disappearance. I know it might be difficult for you to control yourself, but to disregard me and to leave Mr Rowles obviously distraught, wasn't very tactful. One week of detention ought to do the job. Mr Potter, just never ignore the orders from the Headmistress again, please."

Harry nodded quickly, relieved to be given only a week worth of detention. "Of course. Yes, of course."

McGonagall managed her first genuine smile. "Good. Well, now that that's settled, why don't you go and join Mr Weasley and Miss Granger? They're down in the dungeons."

Harry nodded, then frowned. "Wait… the dungeons? Why?"

"Professor Slughorn, I believe, had to house two Aurors," she said, her eyebrows slightly raised, as though she didn't quite know what to think about that.

"Aurors?"

McGonagall's small smile turned a little sheepish. "Well. We couldn't leave the Boy Who Lived fend for himself, could we?"

Harry didn't find it very funny. "But what about Draco? Have they found anything yet?" He asked, impatiently. His right leg was twitching.

So, there were Aurors around, and they weren't trying to find the person in need of finding, no, they tried to find him, Harry Potter, the guy who very possibly was the least important to find? Hadn't he proved that over the last couple of years? Hadn't he proven he was best left alone when he said so? Hadn't he proven he didn't need help from Aurors, when he didn't say he needed help?

He sighed heavily. He realised he was looking at his shoes, and quickly looked up, where he found McGonagall looking at him sadly.

"I'm sorry Mr Potter," she said, and Harry wasn't sure _what_ she was sorry about. "Perhaps you should go down to the dungeons now and see if they've got any information for you about Mr Malfoy."

Harry recognised the dismissal, and nodded slowly, his eyes lingering on McGonagall before he stalked out of the door. She was acting strangely.

Perhaps it was just tension, he thought, as he made his way towards the Hogwarts' dungeons. Or perhaps the stress from being Headmistress was getting to her. Or maybe she was really worried about Draco. But probably not so much. Well, okay, she was probably worried that a student of hers was missing, but it _was_ Draco Malfoy… he should find out whether that made any difference to her. Just to be sure.

He knocked on Slughorn's door. It didn't open immediately, but when it did, he found two stern faces looking at him. Harry didn't think they looked like Aurors at all. No, they looked more like Unspeakables. Straight faces, deep eyes, no expressions.

"Mr Potter," one of them said, his voice deep, sounding tired. Harry wondered how many times this man had had to track stupid runaway teenagers. If it was him, he'd grow bored after a while too.

It seemed Hermione and Ron hadn't realised Harry was there yet –probably because of two mountains of men standing in the doorway- but they came flying towards him as soon as they heard the letter_ P_.

Hermione got there first, and hugged him so tightly he was scared he might suffocate. She was babbling.

"Oh Harry, we were so scared. You hadn't been outside at all since the start of your… condition, and I was so worried," she released him, looked him straight in the eye. "I feared…"

Harry never got to figuring out what exactly she feared, because one of the Aurors hit him with a spell, unexpectedly, which was possibly not a very smart thing to do.

At once, his fangs dropped down, and his mouth opened up into a hiss. He shuddered, felt white heat coursing through his body. A lock dangling in front of his eye turned silvery pale. His pose changed, it screamed offence.

"What the fuck was that?" He asked roughly. His voice had changed. It resounded, it was dark and deep.

The Aurors backed up slightly, to Harry's amusement.

One started speaking, but obviously decided he didn't like the way he sounded himself, so he cleared his throat. Harry smirked. "We- We put a tracking charm on you. I just took it off."

Harry sighed, inwardly. At least he was safe. But that didn't mean he was done with them.

"And you do that a lot?" He asked dangerously. "Cast charms on unsuspecting people?"

The man wanted to shake his head, had started to do so, before he changed his mind and added: "I was just taking it off. I wasn't casting a _charm_ on you. I don't see why you react so-"

"So you cast a counter-charm, so what?" Harry said, his voice rising. He tried to reason with himself, but the Spectre-side was angry. "You could've warned me!"

The man stood there, dumbstruck. The other Auror seemed to just have given up completely.

Harry breathed in deeply. "You could've warned me, okay? I just- You scared me," he said truthfully, and to his great horror, his voice broke on the second-to-last word. It seemed his emotions weren't stable anymore either.

He looked around, and realised everyone was either looking at him in fear, or –in Hermione's case- concern and sympathy. He wasn't sure which one he resented most. The Aurors still looked at him as if he was about to explode any second now.

"Look," he said. "I don't know myself so well these days, so let's just keep spell-casting to a minimum, but if you _have_ to, a warning would be nice. Just to be sure."

He kept using that phrase, but to be frank, he didn't know for sure what he meant with it. Just to be sure of what? In case he was more dangerous that he thought?

And then…

_Well, okay, she was probably worried that a student of hers was missing, but it _was_ Draco Malfoy… he should find out whether that made any difference to her. Just to be sure._

Just to be sure that she wasn't about to hurt him? Why would she ever? Was this Spectre taking over his mind, believing there were hazards for himself and his mate everywhere he went?

If that were true, his life wouldn't be stress-free from now on. But then again, when was it ever?

The Aurors nodded at him, visibly relieved. Ron and Hermione were both smiling at him, and he wondered if he had entirely overreacted.

Then he looked at Slughorn and wanted to run from the office as soon as possible. Slughorn was looking at him exactly the same way he had when he had looked at Hagrid's acromantula. His hands were wringing slightly, his eyes peering at him as though he was some sort of rare species that needed examining. Oh, wait.

Nonetheless, he wasn't comfortable. He smiled a strangled smile at the Professor, then he turned around quickly, wondering if Slughorn would soon be asking for a piece of his fang.

"Are you tracking Dr-" He realised his mistake, just a second before everything could have possible gotten blown to hell. _Are you tracking Draco yet_?- he had wanted to ask, before he realised Ron and Hermione were still there.

He turned around and looked at them. They were standing by the window, obviously intrigued. Harry cursed himself.

Hermione stepped forward. "Harry, I know you might want to hide it, but you can tell us. We won't judge. We know you can't do anything about it."

Ron looked seriously nonplussed.

"Finding your mate is more important right now than fearing our reaction. And I will tell you, that reaction would be nothing to fear, Harry! I don't understand how you could expect that from us!"

Harry looked down at his shoes, and mumbled. "You don't know nothing yet."

Hermione raised her eyebrows at that statement. Ron screeched: "What's going on?"

Hermione turned around, obviously exasperated. "Oh Ronald, Harry's clearly embarrassed about the identity of his mate."

Harry felt the need to clear his throat. "I'm not embarrassed!" He spluttered indignantly. "I just didn't feel ready to tell you yet. I might turn out to be nothing, and then…" He didn't know where he was going with that sentence. _Then I might as well stop living_, maybe.

Ron nodded understandingly. "Well, Harry, just so you know, I won't judge. Unless it's that stupid cow Parkinson, then I might."

Harry felt the inane urge to grin. "No, it's not Parkinson." Though, it wasn't that far off. It was only her best friend, who was, strangely but blessedly, male.

"Good," Ron said promptly.

Harry looked at the Aurors behind him. They were busy. He frowned. Had they begun tracing Draco? Did they even know it was Draco Malfoy they had to trace? They probably did, now that he thought about it. They were pretty useless if they didn't.

At that point one of the Aurors looked up, and met Harry's gaze. He gave a nod, and Harry sighed a sigh of relief. They knew and they were working on it. The Auror looked at him a second longer, then turned back to the table, pointing and tracing things on the map they had in front of them. Well, it looked like a map anyway, but Harry wasn't sure what it was exactly. Either way, he was relieved _someone_ was at least being productive.

He turned around yet again, back to Hermione and Ron. He was practically ignoring Slughorn now, hoping the man would get the message and not ask him for anything. But, it was undoubtedly a lost cause.

Hermione was looking at him like she often looked at her homework, like he was a puzzle that needed desperate solving. Her hawk-like eyes had probably seen the nod the Auror had given him too. As well as his slip-up, so she knew at least that they name started with a _D_ now. He was surprised she hadn't figured it out yet. His only consolation was that they were blissfully clueless about the maleness of his mate yet, so it _might_ to sometime yet for her to figure it out. Hopefully.

Ron was just looking generally bemused at practically everything. Harry hid a small smile. It wasn't that Ron wasn't smart, he just needed some more time to think about things. He couldn't process and conclude as quickly as Hermione could. Which was why he was often left looking like a guppy in cases like this one.

Hermione walked up to him, and took a silent vigil next to him, both of them turning around to look at the Aurors working. Harry hoped to Merlin they would be discreet.

After a while she said: "Really Harry, anyone. Anyone, and we wouldn't mind. Please, understand."

Harry looked at her, trying to see if she had already figured it out, but judging by her prying eyes and desperate glance, he didn't think so. He nodded.

They looked back at the table again. Harry knew he was supposed to keep standing where he was standing, but he just couldn't control himself.

He kept thinking about Draco, about the pain he had felt getting shot through his back, and he was _sure_ it wasn't his own pain that he had felt. It felt as if he had a program built into his mind, which could tell automatically if what he was feeling were Draco's emotions, or his own. And, admittedly, he was grateful for that. It may help him keep Draco safe.

Although, there would be no keeping Draco safe if they couldn't find him. The Aurors were busy, whispering to each other, and for a second Harry wished Ron and Hermione weren't here. It would certainly make things easier. But he knew, rationally, he needed them. After all, they were the ones that kept him stable. He kept wondering if - if his friends had been there during his talk with Mr Rowles - he wouldn't have stormed off, and he wouldn't have wasted valuable time. Time he could have spent looking for Draco, instead of running around heedlessly outside.

The Auror that had nodded at him before, waved his hand at him now, in a _come closer_ way. The Auror's eyes momentarily flickered towards Hermione, and Harry followed his gaze.

Hermione met his eyes, and nodded as well, making a gesture with her hand that said _the floor's yours_, meaning 'I won't interfere'. Harry nodded gratefully at her, and then wondered over the fact that nodding mysteriously seemed a trend tonight. He looked at Ron and found him still looking like a guppy. Oh well.

He sidled up next to the Aurors, and one of them cast a Silencing Charm, for which Harry was very thankful. At least the Aurors weren't as stoic as he had thought they were. At least they could understand Harry's predicament.

"Okay, Mr Potter," the Auror on the left side of him said, not the nodding-Auror, as Harry had dubbed the other one. "We know for sure he is still in Britain; we could trace him about that far, but other than that…"

Harry waited a few seconds, but the Auror didn't seem to be inclined to finish his sentence.

"Yes?" He said, a little sharply.

The Auror sighed. "He is probably in an Unplottable building, or under a similar spell. We've encountered that people under a Disillusionment Charm couldn't be traced properly either; that's one of the reasons we couldn't trace Death Eaters back in the days. Well, that, and thousands of other Dark spells he had put on them, of course."

Harry needn't ask who he meant by 'him'. "So, he could be under a Disillusionment Charm? You mean, he's entirely invisible?"

The Auror shrugged, and looked at the strange map in front of them. "Not necessarily. It can also be used for covering certain parts of the body, such as scars. He doesn't need to be completely invisible, but the Charm is still the same, unfortunately."

Harry frowned. "Scars? But why- Why would they want to hide only a certain part of Draco?"

The Auror looked a bit uncomfortable, for some reason. "I didn't say it _has_ to be that way. He could also be charmed completely invisible, or he could be in an Unplottable building, or – well, there are thousands of other spells that can be used to stop a tracing; wards and blocking hexes. We really can't tell."

Harry realised how close he had moved to the Auror, trying to be certain he caught every word the man said, which was probably why the man was looking a bit out of place. After all, he had a potentially lethal and extremely rare creature practically sitting on his lap. Harry hastily moved back.

"Okay, I get it. Thousands of spells, can't be sure which one. I get it."

Both the Aurors nodded now, and Harry smiled a secret smile. Somehow, they reminded him a bit of Goyle and Crabbe, only much more intelligent.

"So, that's it? You're saying we don't know where he is, and we can't pinpoint it either?" Harry asked, already trying to think about a way to overcome _that_ hurdle.

"Well, at least we know he's in Britain," the nodding-Auror said.

Harry thought about that for a second, and then nodded dejectedly, his shoulders slumping slightly. "Yes, of course. At least he's close."

He broke the Silencing Charm with a simple gesture with his hand. For the corner of his eye he could see both of the Aurors raising their eyebrows. Apparently, they hadn't known yet his magic-skills had also improved.

He went back to Hermione, standing on her left side again. Ron had moved from his guppy tank by the window to the right side of Hermione, but his expression hadn't changed that much yet. Harry grinned.

"Okay?" She asked quietly.

Harry wasn't sure if she was referring to Draco, or to himself, so he answered for both of them: "Could be worse."

Hermione sighed. "Okay. Well, that's something at least."

Harry found himself nodding again, but then a sharp pain shot across his back again, and he was unprepared. "Shit," he said, turning around, his hand shooting automatically to the spot where it hurt most. He closed his eyes, tried to breathe deeply and ignore it. It wasn't him, it was Draco. That only made it worse, though.

"Harry?" He heard behind him, recognising the concerned voice of Hermione Granger.

He turned around again, grimacing somewhat. He could see Hermione's eyes widening dramatically. "It's her, isn't it?" She said, and Harry wondered who she was referring to at first, but then he remembered they didn't even know he was into blokes. He was in deep trouble. "I didn't realise it went that deep already, Harry. I mean-" she broke off, and stepped a little closer to him, Ron following her silently. "You can already feel her pain and emotions, am I right? Harry, such a gift is so rare. And so soon…"

Harry nodded, and Hermione gasped, obviously not believing her own speculations until now.

"Oh my god," she whispered, her hand covering her mouth. Harry didn't exactly see what all the surprise was about. "If only you'd tell me who… Oh, that is so exciting, Harry!"

He didn't really understand what was so exciting about that, since all that it did was give him backaches. But well, he gathered he _did_ see the handiness of it. But exciting?

Then Harry remembered he was dealing with Hermione, and by the rate she was going, she was probably already planning to read ten books on the subject, and then, when the time came, observe him and his mate, and then write her own book on telepathy.

If only she'd know.

If she did, he wasn't sure she'd be as keen as she was right now. Harry felt so bad about keeping the truth from them that on the one hand, he wanted to cry at her _it's Draco Malfoy, how about that? Still so eager?!_ But on the other hand he wanted to never have to tell them, because he knew she and Ron would be hurt. Not only because he hadn't told about Draco, but he hadn't told them about his preferences either.

Now, that would be some conversation.

Harry shook his head, trying to rid the thoughts. Now was not the time anyway.

Now was the time for Draco-hunting.

* * *

**Chapter Fourteen  
Inside  
**  
Harry was still in the room with the Aurors and his two best friends, when the first signs of doom made themselves known. A dull ache in his head appeared and a very faint nauseating feeling settled in his stomach. He tried to convince himself that it was Draco he was feeling, but deep down he knew he was kidding himself.

Dumbledore had always told him how fooling people was a crime, but fooling oneself was debauchery. It was bad enough if one hurts other people around them, but when one starts 'bamboozling' themselves, true evil is born. Harry had seen at the time how Dumbledore could be referring to Voldemort, but only now did he realise the old Headmaster was also trying to warn Harry not to go down that path.

And so, he sighed and said, almost soundlessly: "Right, it's me."

He knew he shouldn't have said anything, because, and he realised this now in retrospection, Hermione's too-sensitive-for-her-own-good ears had caught Harry's sigh. As a hawk spotting a pray, she turned around and fixed Harry with her brown, owlish eyes. She quirked an eyebrow, wordlessly telling Harry she had heard it, and she needed an explanation. As she did to everything.

And normally Harry wouldn't mind, because that's the way Hermione is, and he loved her for it (mainly because most of the times it meant she could make his homework) but at times like this, it made him want to breathe another deep, slaking sigh. He didn't though, because one quirked eyebrow was enough, thank you very much.

"Hermione-" he said, trying to puppy-dog-eye his way out of this. It wasn't that he didn't want to tell her, it was the way he knew she was likely to react. Like a mother hen. But as much as Harry craved a mother, he didn't want it to be Hermione. He'd rather she'd be his friend.

"Harry, please," she said, her tone soft, just the sort of tone Harry hated. Like he was about to break. Like he was a boy who needed sheltering. He didn't. He was an extremely rare dark creature with fangs and impressive speed, who could apparently suck magic out of other magic beings. But Hermione seemed to ignore that part.

"Harry," she continued, "I know it is difficult, and I know you are changing, but that's all the more reason to talk to us. You can't keep everything bottled up."

_Yeah,_ Harry thought to himself, _I wouldn't be keeping everything to myself if only Draco was here. At least he understands. _

_But he isn't_. And at that Harry actually let out a little dry sob, which horrified him; he tried to play it off as a mangled cough. Damn it! He wasn't some sort of girl! So yeah, his mate was gone, but that didn't matter right now. The last thing he needed was to turn mushy. He grumbled low in his chest at himself, blaming the stupid Spectre side of himself.

Hermione was watching Harry's emotion change like fire engulfing a room. She had heard the strange sob, even though he tried to mask it, and then the change to anger. All of the occupants in the room had looked up – alarmed – when Harry'd grumbled. It was ridiculous really. And the worst part was, he didn't even realise.

Harry looked up, seeing Hermione staring at him even more intensively than before. It unsettled him, her gaze, but it also made him annoyed. If she was so observant, why hadn't she figured it out yet? Why hadn't anyone figured it out yet? At least then, they could help him.

He shook his head. He was getting unreasonable, he knew this. He closed his eyes, shielding them from the world, but he could still see the thin silver lines of magic that ran all over the castle; they were ingrained in his vision. Even in darkness, he could see them.

A hand touched his shoulder, making him jump. Hermione looked at him apologetically. Harry made up his mind.

"I'm already feeling the absence of…" he considered briefly if he should just say _him_, just to get over it, but he chickened out of it. "…my mate."

Hermione frowned. "How do you mean?"

"If my mate's gone for too long, I will start feeling the ramifications. Just like when this all started," he explained, his eyes focussed on the Aurors once again. He didn't know exactly what they were doing. They had told him they couldn't find him, but they were still pointing at things on the strange map, and muttering things.

Harry took a step towards them, meaning to ask them, but a mountain loomed up in front of him. Literally.

He looked up, where he found the face of Horace Slughorn, smiling down at him as if he was some first-year student, who needed to be consoled. But there was a gleam of something else… Harry didn't want to see what it was, but he knew. He had just gained even more of Slughorn's adoration, because Harry was now not only an excellent student – in Slughorn's eyes, of course – but he was also a rare creature. Slughorn must be feeling like a kid in sweet shop.

"Harry, my boy, you keep surprising me over and over," he said, his voice booming. "I must say, old Albus was right all that time. Of course, I never doubted you or him."

Harry didn't know what Albus had been right about and he doubted he wanted to.

Slughorn had gone on with his story. "-however, if you want to know something about your condition, of anything else, never hesitate to knock on my door! I find great pride in saying that I know quite a bit of… well, let's say, intriguing matters. And _you_, my boy, may find great pride in calling yourself that! I have even preserved that vial of blood I received when this all started. For academic purposes, of course."

Harry was quite sure _academic purposes_ meant selling it in a corner of Knockturn Alley with a card saying 'TRULY IMPRESSIVE: SPECTRE BLOOD, EXTREMELY RARE. NOW FOR ONLY 600 GALLEONS!' next to it. He didn't really mind, it was just that he wished Slughorn to be honest.

He nodded at the man, forcing a mannerly smile. Slughorn beamed back at him and slapped him Hagrid-style across his back. Fortunately, Harry wasn't the scrawny, tiny boy he used to be, so he managed to keep upright.

"That's my boy," Slughorn said proudly, as he walked back to the window he had been leaning on.

Harry grimaced at Hermione and she pulled exactly the same face back at him, only with a secret hint of mirth in her eyes. Ron was now sitting in Slughorn's chair behind his desk, but he didn't even seem to notice he had just taken that seat. Instead, he sat there with his hands clasped over each other, seemingly contemplating life. Harry might have believed he was actually doing that, if he didn't know better.

The Aurors were still pouring over their map, and so, Harry resumed his original path towards them. They were whispering things, frowns on their faces. He didn't find it comforting, even though it meant that they were trying to figure it out. Instead, it made him feel on edge, because the Aurors didn't look confident, if their befuddled faces were anything to go by, which made Harry feel like going out there yet again to search for himself. But he knew that would be stupid, mainly because Draco was likely hidden under a Fidelius-charm. He could search to his heart's content, but it wouldn't make a difference if he didn't know exactly where Draco was being held.

And even if he did know exactly, the charm would still prevent him from entering. He knew that only if he knew coordinates or the address, he could enter.

But then again, the Aurors had also told him that the reason they couldn't trace Draco, could be because he was under a Disillusionment charm, rather than a Fidelius-charm or an Unplottable house. However, that seemed even more far-fetched. Why would they only put Draco under the charm, if the persons holding him could put the whole place under a spell? That would make them much harder to find. In any case, that was what he would do. Now, he hoped the captors would do the opposite.

Still, he had to be realistic; it was no use being naïve, even if ignorance were bliss. Even though he hoped the captors were dumb so he could find Draco faster, they probably had some tricks up their sleeves. They had been smart enough to capture him in a relatively desolated part of Hogsmeade, take him and Portkey them all away as quick as they had appeared.

And now that he thought about it, ignorance wasn't bliss anyway. Draco was out there, and the longer Harry had to stay inside, the more agitated he was becoming. Not only was a headache growing, and his stomach making weird loops, but he had now begun pacing, the irritation of doing nothing to help Draco finally getting to him – in full force.

He knew the others were looking at him, he could see Hermione sending worried glances at Ron, so he knew he must look frantic.

He tried to slow his pacing, but the second he stood still the jittery feeling only grew worse, which made his legs twitch and his head a whirlwind of instincts and impulses, all trying to gain the upper hand.

The Spectre-side told him to break out of this meagre attempt at an office, and bloody start searching for himself, while the rational part of his brain told him to wait until the Aurors found something, because, after all, they were the experts on this kind of thing. Then, the Harry-side of him, which Draco would have dubbed the Gryffindor-side, told him to shove the Aurors aside and try whatever spells they were using himself. All in all, he was pulled in many different directions.

A hand on his shoulder made him pull an abrupt stop to his pacing. He raised his head and was surprised to be looking into the blue eyes of Ron. His friend smiled at him.

"Mate, you're wearing a hole in the ground," he said, for once completely serious. "I understand you're concerned for what's-her-name, but tiring yourself won't help."

Harry appreciated the effort, he even gave his friend half a smile, but he didn't know what else to do with himself. He looked around, conflicted, and then sagged into the chair in front of Slughorn's desk. He covered his eyes with his hand, resting his elbow on the arm of the chair. Ron took, again, Slughorn's chair, looking slightly smug with himself. Harry even saw him exchange a victorious glance with Hermione. He didn't really care. Even if they had been plotting to make him sit down, it felt good.

With the way his head was resting in his hand, a lock of silver hair fell in front of his eyes, and, deciding that for now there was nothing better to do, he tried to focus on getting it black again, just to distract himself from… himself, sadly.

He realised he might just be acting a little self-centred and self-absorbed. Maybe it even seemed as if he was holding a little pity-party for himself. While he realised it may seem that way, all he was truly focussing on was Draco. Every little sensation which felt out of place, made him shoot upright. He knew he was feeling Draco, and yes, he was glad, because it meant he was still alive, but it also made him impatient again. His mate was in pain and he was miles away from him!

Harry sighed when he realised he was letting the Spectre-side control him again. Dutifully, he looked at his hair, and felt slightly heartened when he saw it was now, at least, silver-slash-black. He set about his original task of getting it totally black again with just a little more optimism than he had felt before.

He spent the next fifteen minutes focussing on himself and trying to force some composure into his whirling mind, in which he succeeded relatively well. At least his hair was back to black, which looked much better, if he were honest with himself. He had always been the kid with the unruly black hair, and silver hair looked strange on him. Besides, silver and platinum-blond don't mix.

That stray thought almost caused Harry to chuckled, but he managed to keep it to himself. The others probably thought he was nuts already, sudden laughter would only reinforce that.

Still, he realised he was taking over some of Draco's habits, if thinking about what colours mix with what were any indication. Then he remembered Draco saying '_I liked it silver too'_, when Harry had first set about consciously changing his hair back to black, which made him slam back into reality and realise he was totally wasting his time.

He jumped out of his chair, his whole body alive with action once again, as if the fifteen minutes of rest had been a short power-nap for his new instincts, which now reared back into action. Out of the corner of his eye he saw Ron give Hermione a glance which clearly said: 'well, we tried.'

He couldn't care less about furtive glances at the time, anyway. He needed Draco and Draco needed him. The headache crashed back to its original intensity, and for a moment Harry actually needed to shield his eyes, even though there was little light in the room. His head burned and his eyes begged to be closed, but he knew he couldn't. He knew the only way he could make things better for himself, was to find Draco. Finding Draco meant ending this whole spiral of chaos.

He did make a tiny note to himself that the meditating seemed to lessen the strain of his mate being so far away, but he only spared it a moment's thought.

He walked up to the Aurors and was too distracted by his headache and his intense need to just get out there and find the blond-haired boy himself, that he totally forgot about a silencing charm.

"Nothing yet?" He asked, his eyes focussed on the strange map, trying to figure it out.

The Aurors didn't answer, so Harry looked up. The men looked around and they seemed to be trying to tell him something using only their eyes, but Harry was too far gone to notice. He kept staring at them until they shook their heads.

Harry kept looking at them, as if sheer willpower would change their predicament. "Yes, there is," he said, and by the way the Aurors looked at each other, he knew the men thought he had lost his mind. "Just tell me you know something."

He could see Hermione casually walking closer out of the corner of his eye, obviously discreetly trying to eavesdrop, which only made Harry angrier.

"There is, isn't there?" He said, his voice getting harder. He didn't think he could control himself for much longer, and he knew that by now his hair must be totally silver again.

The men shook their heads again, looking more frightened by the second. Harry knew from the twirling magic within him that he must be quite a sight right now, and that he soon would burst. Although he didn't know what _burst_ meant, exactly. He just knew he would.

The currents of magic running around the room were getting brighter by the second. Harry knew he was causing this himself: he was feeding the room energy by his continued lack of control, but also because his senses were getting more and more enhanced by the second. He could feel the magic now, not only see it, he could touch it with his mind, and he knew he could do incredible things with it. He could smell it, could taste it.

A hand was about to touch his shoulder, but before it even connected, he turned around and snarled at the concerned, anxious, surprised face of Hermione, letting his fangs drop.

"Don't touch me," he said, his voice low and resonating.

Some part of him knew he was totally out of line and was trying helplessly to reign it in, but the more dominant part of his brain – well, _right now_ it was more dominant, Harry hoped it wouldn't always be – told him his soulmate was in very real danger and he was just sitting in a dusty office, wasting his time. He told that part of his brain it was absolutely right.

By now he was thrumming with kerbed energy, every pore of his body was alive and ready to fight. Only he didn't know what to fight. Certainly not Hermione, not the Aurors either.

No, for Draco. He needed to fight for Draco.

"Harry," Hermione said slowly, and on some level it hurt Harry to hear the fear in her voice. "Please, you're overreacting."

Of course, that was about the most unwise thing she could have said to Harry at that moment. His anger only became greater, until he was sure his body wouldn't hold it anymore.

"Harry, please, just try to reign it in, we'll come up with something. Just don't be so foolish," he could hear her saying, but she sounded distant now, her voice muffled behind the breakdancing thoughts inside his head.

He could sense the Aurors getting closer, obviously planning to grab him and sedate him, but Harry wouldn't let that happen. He twisted out of their grab, before they had even truly grabbed him, and practically pounced to the door. He turned around, though, wanting to say what he wanted to say all night long. Only now did he have enough anger and irrationality inside him that he could say it without thinking about what reactions it might cause.

"I'm not _overreacting_, Hermione," he sneered at her, and saw a wounded look in her eyes. For a moment it made him feel good and it made him smirk. "I'm not foolish either."

His voice sounded dangerous, even to his own ears. He looked around at everyone in the room, locking eyes with them and let them realise that he had the potential to harm, if he wanted to.

"That's my _soulmate_ out there," he continued, his voice getting even more powerful by the second. "I know you can't even understand that concept, but to lose him would be to lose me. I'll be damned if I'm going to hang around waiting here for one more second!"

The only tiny rational part of his brain remaining told him he had just made a slipup, but he couldn't figure out what it was. He also realised he was going to be making a lot of apologies when this was over.

He didn't give that part of his brain any more attention though, as he looked at Hermione once more, and saw the same expressions of shock and anxiousness still on her face, but also something else… intrigue?

He shook his head, deciding he didn't care. He sneered and showed them his fangs one more time before he turned around and walked straight through the very corporal door without even realising what he had just done. He didn't hear the gasps from inside the room either.

* * *

He was outside, standing in the dungeons' corridor, but he didn't know what to do now. Run? All of his instincts were telling him different things, all of them battling for dominance. Harry wanted to scream and run, run from his instincts and think, think quietly.

No such thing though. The Spectre's worry only grew as he felt another painful slash across his back, and suddenly Harry crashed to the earth, along with a very unmanly yelp.

He wasn't aware of this though, he also wasn't aware of very alarmed people filing out of Slughorn's office, all he was aware of was the sudden prison-like room he was in. At once, he knew he was looking through his mate's eyes.

There were two men, all dressed in black. They didn't have marks on their revealed arms though, Harry could see that much. So, Draco hadn't been abducted by stray Death Eaters. Or they were just not 'precious' enough to be marked at the time that Voldemort had still been alive. But then, why would they be guarding Draco right now if they were just lackeys?

Harry was already going into overload, trying to take everything in, and also trying to stave off the extreme nausea the trip to his mate's mind had apparently caused. That didn't matter right now. He did notice, though, that the headache had disappeared, simply because he felt close to Draco right now, no matter how many miles were between them. Seemingly, being in someone else's mind could do that to a person.

He could feel stones under his back hurting and scraping his skin, he see almost nothing; his vision was obscured by two black eyes, and he ached all over. Harry tried to move, but found that he could only perceive, not influence Draco's body. It was Voldemort-visions all over again, except for one big different; this time Harry actually found it comforting, knowing where his mate was and knowing his injuries. It made Harry feel slightly better to know that, at least, it _could_ be worse. Knock on wood.

Harry wondered if Draco could feel he was there. He hoped so, anyway. He had a feeling his soulmate felt very alone in that cell.

The nausea became all-encompassing, and Harry was wrenched back into his own body, leaving him feeling crushed and retching on the ground in the cold Hogwarts dungeons.

It took a while before he came back to himself. A most atypical group of wizards and witches stood around him, looking at him in concern, but obviously not daring to touch.

Harry withdrew his fangs, and looked Hermione straight in the eye, almost as an apology for earlier. Then he looked at the Aurors. He knew what he wanted to say. He had recognised the room and now he needed to let them know as soon as possible. It was just that he ached and he wanted nothing more than to lie down.

"I know where he is," he said in a rush, his voice breathy and rasping. Then he sank back to the earth.


	8. Chapter 15 and 16

**Chapter Fifteen  
Bode**

Harry woke to a dank, shady room. He didn't open his eyes just yet; first, he let himself become aware of his surroundings. He wasn't so sure of himself anymore these days: he wasn't sure how he was going to react at times. He couldn't know if instinct would take over or if the Spectre would just decide to lay low, letting Harry to his own devices. Clearly, right now, the Phantom-side of him was tired or something, because Harry felt perfectly normal.

Except that he was lying rather uncomfortably. He definitely wasn't lying on a bed, because beds didn't feel this hard, nor did they have two deep ridges in them, one under his shoulder and one under his knees.

He moved his hand just a tiny bit and felt a smooth spindle brush him back. A chair then. Three chairs, stacked next to each other to make an improvised bed.

An improvised bed in… yeah, it certainly smelled like Slughorn's office. They hadn't got any further then. They were still in the office, no closer to Draco or Draco's captors.

Suddenly, Harry's memory switched back on and so did the Spectre. It felt strange, almost as if the Spectre had been soundly sleeping, while Harry was already half-awake, and now it shot upright, shaken out of its slumber. In less than one second, Harry felt all of his nerve-endings shoot to full attention and, instead of lying down, pretending to still be asleep, he found himself sitting upright, his back ramrod straight and instincts on full-force, his eyes blown wide.

_Shit_. Abruptly, he remembered everything. He remembered getting into Draco's mind, seeing through his eyes. He remembered the men, he remembered the loneliness he had felt. Perhaps even hurt. He remembered the room, he knew that room…

But before he could dwell on the room, he remembered the _other_ thing. Harry could slap himself, he wanted to hide his face in shame; a horrible, horrible slip-up. They would hate him forever now.

'_I know where he is,'_ he had said, just before he had passed out. How could he have been so stupid? How could he have lost control over his mouth like that? Harry could feel himself getting red, entirely against his will, which didn't lower his heated emotions at all.

He looked up, registering for the first time that he wasn't alone. His friends were staring at him, Hermione looking concerned, but whether concern for her own safety or concern for Harry, he didn't know. Ron looked like Ron; a frown on his face, but his face was a bit paler than usual, which made his freckles all the more noticeable.

The Aurors were still there, too. Both were obviously trying not to look, but they kept casting curious glances in Harry's direction, which did nothing for his nerves.

Slughorn had to be the scariest of them all; instead of concern or fear, he was looking even brighter than usual, visibly happier now that Harry was reduced to a, let's say, more _animalistic_ state. _That man has serious issues_, was all that Harry could think as he looked at the round-bellied man with a large moustache protruding almost criminally from his face. Surely it wasn't healthy to be _that_ obsessed over magical creatures. He should go into therapy, along with Hagrid. Merlin knew they both needed help on that part.

Still, looking at them all, Harry was happy to see them. If they were here, it meant that they hadn't abandoned him yet, disgusted with him now that they knew the truth. The real truth.

He would have to explain everything now. He would have to explain that he had kept it hidden from them, not just since the Spectre-thing started, but long before that, too. He had known for quite long, maybe even longer than he thought before, in hindsight. Perhaps he had always known.

But they hadn't. Harry's last hope had been that they had figured it out themselves; at least that would've lessened the guilt. If they had secretly know already, he could just say '_oh yeah, well, I already knew you guys kind of knew already, no harm done, right?' _But, judging by Hermione's lectures over the past few days, they didn't know. Well, they hadn't. She had been preaching on about how they would mind, even if _she_ was a Slytherin, even if _she_ was not who they thought it was.

Well, she wasn't who they that she was, because she is actually a _he_. Now, how's that for a surprise.

So, no such luck. He would have to face the ugly truth, just as his friends. The ugly truth being, he had hidden this part of himself for a while now. A long while. He had hidden it from his best friends, who had made the silent agreement to always tell everything, ever. Till now.

Considering this, maybe his slip-up had been for the better. If he hadn't told them now – or rather, shoved it in their faces before passing out – he would've kept it hidden for even longer, and then he would never had the nerve to tell them, because then it wouldn't matter anymore. Too far gone.

But what mattered right now was that he _had_ told them. They knew, and now he would have to deal with the repercussions.

Which was why it came as quite a surprise when Hermione went over to him, sitting up on his make-shift bed, and asked him if he were all right, her face clouded with concern and her voice soft.

Harry didn't reply. He stiffened, thoughts now going a 100 miles per hour. Was she luring him into a false sense of comfort before never speaking to him again? That didn't sound very Hermione-like, but then again, these days one could just never know. Or hadn't they realised Harry had made nasty slip-ups? If they hadn't, surely, it would cause only more pain in the end.

_The truth will out_, as Arthur Weasley had once said.

And it had, Harry knew that. He wasn't trying to fool himself, it was just that his currently more venereal mind was skimming over theories, hypotheses forming like microbes in his mind, every possible situation thought of and dealt with. This new skill which he had acquired might've been useful, if the possibilities weren't zooming by so fast that Harry didn't know how to keep up with them, and was instead left sitting vacuously and mutely on the chair.

Hermione seemed to have given up questioning Harry; as an alternative she began shaking his shoulder almost desperately to get a reaction from him.

Which was the right thing to do, as Harry snapped from his near catatonic state, a gasp almost as if he had been underwater torn from his lips. He looked at her, deep brown eyes, feeling an unexplainable urge to keep staring into those russet galaxies, as a way to keep his mind from whirring like a mouse running too fast in its wheel treadmill.

He didn't though, because he feared she would think him even weirder if he did so. In its place, he looked at the ground and mumbled: "Sorry."

He didn't know what he was apologising for. Maybe for keeping secrets, maybe because he wasn't behaving like he should - like a _human _should - maybe because of nothing. Or everything. He hoped she realised that. He just hoped she realised he was sorry, for everything.

And it seemed she did, because a small smile lighted up her face, her eyes crinkling. She patted his shoulder again, then sat down next to him.

"Let's find him, shall we?"

* * *

Draco was getting irrational. He knew this, he knew it very well in fact, but still… He didn't know how long he'd been in the room already, and by now he'd dreamt up and seriously considered the most illogical and life-threatening escape plans that must've ever existed, as well as imagined all the possible scenarios of what would happen if he just didn't move. Maybe they would torture him. Maybe they would just leave him there to die. Maybe he should figure out who 'they' were, first.

He didn't know. Initially, he had thought they were Death Eaters, because of their black cloaks and rather violent measures. Which would make sense, because it was public knowledge that the Ministry still hadn't caught _all_ Death Eaters since the end of the War. But then again, why him? Yeah, his father was in jail and Draco had chickened out of being a Death Eater, but would that really be a reason to capture and kidnap him?

Or perhaps – he was now seriously considering this – they were some sort of fucked-up Dark creature hunters. And they somehow realised he was Harry Potter's mate, as well as somehow knew about Harry being a Spectre. But after all, it would make sense, because Harry was the first Spectre in Merlin-knows-how-many-years. So, if they were figuring they can get Harry through Draco, why hadn't they done anything to him yet, except drag him here? It would make more sense to torture him, loathe as Draco was to admit, so Harry would find him sooner. If not merely because he would probably go completely ballistic.

Thinking about Harry caused some different emotions to simmer. On one hand, Draco felt as if Harry was his last hope, the only spec of light he could see in this very dark room. But on the other hand, and intellectually Draco knew he was being a twerp, he felt angry, because Harry hadn't shown up yet. As soon as that thought had formed, it began to grow. What if Harry was glad he got abducted? What if Harry wasn't going to look for him at all? And then the most ridiculous; what if Harry staged the whole thing?

Draco knew that in situations like this one had to keep an open mind, but he knew the latter was very far-fetched.

He sighed and shifted a little, just enough, not enough to startle the two men. They were still sitting there, on guard duty, presumably. He didn't know if there were more of these men around; he didn't even know where he was. But if he were honest with himself, he knew the chances of these two oafs staging and effectively executing a kidnapping, were very slim. He knew that there was probably some sort of boss around, or at least someone higher in rank. Whoever they were.

The two men were talking quietly and Draco had long since given up on trying to listen in. Whenever he had caught snatches of conversation, they had only been talking about food. They really made him think of Crabbe and Goyle, the short and the big, but both as dense.

Draco was just about to shift to his other side, when a scream pierced the air. It was very high, and he startled so bad he must've jumped quite badly. Fortunately, the two louts were startled as well, and weren't paying any attention to him. They quickly tumbled over to the big arch into what Draco thought was a large hallway.

The scream echoed quite a bit, which only reinforced his belief that they were underground, perhaps in a dungeon or a hide-out.

It could only mean one thing though; he wasn't alone. He wasn't the only victim. Instantly, he felt heartened by this, however harsh that may be. The feeling of total hopelessness and solitude was somehow lessened, if only by a scream.

The big man, Bryan, shouted down the hallway: "Keep 'er quiet, there! This one's not woken up yet!"

Someone shouted something back, but Draco didn't catch it. The walls were too thick and the echoes too loud.

This was important. New information which needed considering, just to stay ahead. So; underground, so far three captors, two captives, multiple rooms. This eliminated the option of them using him to get Harry. Or perhaps not if the woman – because that had definitely been a woman's scream – was key in getting Harry too.

_Don't hypothesise before you've got all the facts, Draco_, he could hear his father say.

He shut his father up when a new person walked into the room, someone he hadn't seen before. A tall man, with a pale white skin, his hair mousy brown. Despite his rather frail appearance, he looked sure of himself and walked with an air of confidence. Draco knew instantly that this man was the leader.

He looked at Draco for a second. Draco quickly shut his eyes and tried to look as asleep as possible.

"Bryan, how many times do I have to tell you to be quiet? We may be safe down here, but upstairs…" the man didn't finish his sentence, but his tone said enough. He snarled and spat his '_s_'s' more than strictly necessary.

Bryan grumbled something and Draco opened his eyes just a bit. The man looked familiar, somehow… like someone you know you should know, except you don't. He racked his brain, trying to pinpoint where he had seen the man before, but he couldn't figure it out. But he did know him, he was sure of that.

He shut his eyes again as the man began walking over to him. The man was tutting about something, muttering softly under his breath. He stopped at Draco's supposed-to-be-unconscious body, and Draco heard him lifting his boot. He didn't understand what was going on, so when the man pushed his harshly in the ribs with his dragon-hide shoes, he had to try very hard to keep lying still.

"Devlin-" said Bryan, but he didn't finish.

Luckily, the man – Devlin, apparently – now rounded on the poor Bryan instead of Draco.

"Yes?" He sneered, his voice bordering on a whisper.

Bryan, poor him, was seemingly too scared to speak his mind, because it stayed quiet for a couple seconds. Draco wondered just who the hell the man was, and why the others – who were significantly bigger than him – seemed so scared of him.

"Yes?" Devlin sneered again, this time his voice even softer, but more dangerous.

Bryan started to speak a few times, but then broke off again. He seemed genuinely very afraid of this Devlin-guy, and Draco was very much wondering why.

"Well," Bryan said finally, "I just think it'd be better not to wake him yet. You know… he could cause trouble."

Devlin had an answer ready. "Oh? And I suppose you two couldn't possibly contain him? I mean, look at him," Devlin prodded Draco again with his shoe. "He's like a walking skeleton. Even if he wakes up, he would likely just beg for your food, instead of trying to break out. Don't worry."

Draco knew these weren't the right circumstances, but still, he felt a bit humiliated. He wasn't skinny, he was just tall and slender. He didn't look like a skeleton. Did he? Okay, he wasn't nearly as muscly as Potter, but muscles weren't everything, right? At least he had grace on his side.

The two men grumbled their consent and heavy footsteps down the hall signalled Devlin's leave. Draco breathed a bit easier.

He began to think though… His father _had_ spoken of a Devlin sometimes. Although, he wasn't very fond of him, it seemed. Whenever he had mentioned him, his voice turned hard and disparaging. Of course, he didn't know if this Devlin was the same as the other, but how many guys went by the name Devlin these days? Surely not many. Surely he had to be the same bloke.

"Devlin Bode… What a name," muttered not-Bryan. Draco agreed wholeheartedly.

Bode, though… well, Draco knew of Broderick Bode, the Unspeakable, killed by a Devil's Snare put beside his bed in St. Mungo's. It had never been proven, but Draco strongly suspected his father was behind this. That night, his father had returned home all wound up and irate. The next day, the Prophet declared the death of 'Bode, Unspeakable, found killed by own Christmas present'. Apparently, the nurses thought the Devil's Snare was just a plant for Christmas. Draco had seriously begun doubting the intelligence of St. Mungo's staff at that point.

So maybe Broderick had had a son, Devlin. Or maybe Devlin was just family. Or maybe the two didn't know each other at all. Anyway, it was all very confusing. Why would this Devlin-character abduct him? Because his father had killed Devlin's father? Actually, that did make some sort of twisted sense. But then, why would they have more than one victim?

And besides, how could Devlin Bode know Lucius had killed him? Draco only knew because he saw the state his father had been in that night. No one else knew or had seen him that night. He hoped.

And maybe Broderick and Devlin weren't even linked. Once again, Draco found himself jumping to conclusions far too quickly, his own rich fantasy bringing him into more trouble than he asked for. He should just put his mind in a cage or something, somewhere where it couldn't hurt himself or others.

He shifted to get a little annoying rock that was hurting his back to move. He sucked in a deep breath when he felt his ribs; even more sensitive than before, now that _Devlin_ had so nicely kicked him.

If he ever got out of here, that man would pay 

* * *

**Chapter Sixteen**  
**Gaol**

Draco didn't know how long he had been in his little dank prison already, but he figured it had been a few hours since he had first woken up. At some point, the discomfort at lying on his back on the stones all the time had really begun to irritate him, so he had had to move. Of course, his watchers, Bryan and the other, had realised then that he wasn't asleep – or unconscious since those buffoons had knocked him out – anymore, which resulted in quite some drama.

_Draco just couldn't hold this 'sleeping' position anymore. He had to move. He tried it the careful way, rolling around slowly, which sort of worked, until a stone that had previously been denting into his lower back, poked the rib he thought was broken. It hurt more than he could've imagined. Which was why he couldn't hold back his whispered 'Merlin, fuck'. At least, he thought he had whispered, until he realised the two men behind him had stood up. He was lying on his left side, facing the outer wall, but out of the corner of his right eye, he could see the enormous shadows of the two men looming right next to him. He supposed he could've tried to close his eyes again, pretending to still be asleep, but the pinch in his ribs had firmly stripped him of any remaining sluggishness, so he was wide awake._

_One of the guys bend over him, looked him straight in the eye. Draco just stared back. He didn't know what they were going to do now. Were they going to torture him? Did they want information about Harry? What did they want?_

_The man continued to stare at him, his eyes piercing into Draco's. It seemed as if he was trying to determine what he was going to do, too. Draco felt as if the man was trying to read his mind, trying to read from his eyes if he, Draco, was going to run, fight or cower._

_If his father had taught him anything, it was that Malfoys didn't cower._

_So, true to his ever-well-wishing father, he pulled his face into a sneer and asked scathingly: "Like what you see?"_

_Mentally he patted himself on the back, because that had been a true-to-form impression of fifth-year Draco. Physically, he felt as if he might burst into tears any second now._

_The man - this was Bryan, Draco believed - thankfully seemed to snap out of his apparent stupor, and jumped back. He hadn't honestly thought Draco had still been asleep, had he?_

_Deciding that now was as good a time as any, Draco stretched his limbs for the first time in what felt like a long time. He stretched, even though the bliss of his muscles unrolling was mixed with a nauseating pain, probably caused by all his bruises and – likely – some broken bones. He slowly moved into a new position, sitting up and crossing his legs tenderly, his body screaming at him to stay still. But he wouldn't- he wanted to face his captors. When he was finally sitting up, he looked up at the men, who were watching him apprehending, obviously scared what his next move would be. He simply glared at them, trying to convey defiance with his eyes._

_"You better watch it, Malfoy," the other man said, seemingly quicker on the uptake than Bryan, "We've got you right where we want you. You can't escape. Don't even try to run, you'll only end up dead."_

_Draco tried to appear aloof about this, and outwardly he may have been, but deep inside his own mind he realised that these men weren't playing. They were very, very serious._

_Bryan finally found his voice. "Oh, don't look so confident. We_

_will, if you don't cooperate. You'll be as dead as that idiot Dumbledore. Right, Joey?"_

_The slightly smaller man - Joey apparently - nodded, eyeing Draco as if he might try to run away any second now. Joey, though… The only Joey Draco knew, was Joey Jenkins, who played Beater for the Chudley Cannons. Not this guy, obviously. Although they did have the same body type: big and muscled, especially his arms. The only difference was that the Joey Draco knew, was a hell of a lot more handsome._

_Still, Bryan had just given him some valuable information._

_That idiot Dumbledore, he had said. Not that Draco had a list, but he crossed 'light-side fanatic' off it, all the same. No, he had suspected before, but he knew for sure now: these guys had been on the losing side during the war. But he could tell from their arms that they hadn't been real Death Eaters. So what then? Snatchers? Or some wannabe Death Eaters? Or some more sinister creatures from the ranks of Voldemort? Vampires? Werewolves?_

_Admittedly, these two men looked perfectly ordinary. Except for their overly black outfits, they looked like any other wizard. That Devlin, though… he had looked lethal, while these guys just looked dangerous._

_Draco hadn't seen Devlin again since that time he had first come in. He hadn't heard any more eerie screams, either. But from time to time he heard whispers and people talking from down the hallway, but it echoed and bounced too much to make anything of it. He could never see them: 'his' room seemed to be the last one of the hallway, and from an arch he looked into the hall, but he couldn't see anything other than the room opposite his own and a little part of the one next to that._

_Now that he thought about it, he thought it strange that the iron gate of bars that was built into the arch, was still open. He_

_could run away, even though he wouldn't know how far he'd come. Probably not that far._

_As if sensing his thoughts (or just seeing his eyes on the door), Joey jumped into action. He walked over to the gate, and shut it, the sound of the lock clicking into place sounding exactly the same as Draco's last hope that was just smashed into the ground. The clang ricocheted through the room, both men quiet._

_Joey walked back to them. "There's no getting out of here, son," he said, and Draco would rather they called him a dick, than 'son'. "And you don't have to. All you have to do is work with us."_

_Draco sneered. These guys thought he was some kind of idiot, that he would believe all their petty words and help them, whatever they wanted. Well, he wouldn't. Not if they wanted information about Potter, nor if they wanted him for some other evil plan. He had defected, and it would stay that way._

_He ripped his gaze off the men, instead glancing around the room, finally seeing all of it, after having been lying in it for hours – or longer, considering he didn't know how long he'd been out cold. It was cold, the whole place was made out of stone, except the iron gates and two old, wobbly, wooden chairs over by the gate. He knew he was underground for sure, now. The part where the ceiling met the walls was stained with green blemishes, like the dirt from outside was trying to get in. The stone was darker than it would've been aboveground: it had turned a kind of greyish-brown colour. It wasn't just one slab of stone though: the walls were made out of big stone blocks stacked on top of each other. They must've been white when they were first installed: on some blocks, where little dents were made or parts had been cut out somehow, almost purely white stone betrayed the beauty that lay behind the grey exterior. So that meant that this wasn't some make-shift hide-out. It had already been there a while, whether used by the same men as now or not, Draco didn't know._

_He looked at them again, Bryan and Joey. They also seemed unsure of what to do next. Then Bryan looked at Joey and nodded. Together, seemingly coming to an unspoken conclusion, they turned around and opened the gate, using a spell, and even though Draco could hear something being whispered, he couldn't make out the exact words. Still, it would be worth investigating, later._

_They went through and closed it again, the lock, just as the first time, clicking and locking automatically into place. Joey kept standing by the gate, just looking at Draco. Bryan walked away. Draco glared into the man's eyes, trying to convey as much of his anger as he could. Joey just stared right back. He didn't come across to Draco as the brightest of persons, but he sure looked well-trained. While Bryan seemed higher in rank of the two of them, Joey looked more dangerous than Bryan did. Yeah, Bryan did have size on his side, but this Joey character… seemed to have at least half a brain too. And Draco had always known that intelligence was what man should fear, not strength._

_Two sets of footsteps approached his room now, one unmistakably the heavy step of Bryan. The other that Devlin Bode guy, Draco knew, as they appeared in front of the iron bars._

_"Ah," was all that Bode said, his eyes narrowed and zoning in on Draco. He cocked his head a bit, raising one hand to rest on an metal bar. "Finally. You would have been no use to use, young man, if you hadn't woken up. I was getting a bit worried."_

_"That's sweet," Draco spat at him, his rib throbbing painfully in his chest as he did so. He thought it was interesting to see, though, that the men suddenly seemed so nervous, staying behind the gate as if he would bite. They didn't seriously think he was going to attack them, right? Draco knew that he would have trouble to even stand up, much less fight one of them. Three of them would be hell._

_Devlin Bode smiled, his teeth whiter than Draco would've thought._

_"Open the door," he said to Bryan. Well, demanded of him._

_Bryan looked apprehensive. "Sure?" He asked, "He could be faking, we thought. He may try something."_

_Devlin raised an eyebrow. "He obviously isn't, though," he said, and Draco wanted to stand up just to prove him wrong, but he knew staying low – figuratively and literally – would be best, for now. "And if he does, I'll hit him. I'm pretty sure I could knock him out again with just one blow."_

_Draco wanted to disagree, but he knew Bode was right. He was feeling like crap. He hurt all over and even though the two black eyes had shrunk a bit in size, he still felt bloated all over and he knew he didn't look good._

_When Bryan didn't open the door, Devlin sighed and shoved him aside and waved his wand, looking Draco straight in the eye. Wordless magic wasn't uncommon, but it was still very unfortunate for Draco, in this case. If only he knew the spell… but he didn't even have his wand. It would make no difference, since Draco had never succeeded in deliberately using wandless magic._

_Bode went through and the gate locked itself again. Bryan took out his wand, and rested it on the lock, looking ready to say the spell should there be any trouble. Draco knew there wouldn't be any trouble from his side, though. But he couldn't speak for Devlin, who was looking very troublesome right now. He was looking at Draco as if he was a lion and Draco was a little deer, ready to be pounced on and eaten. Draco kept sitting cross-legged, but he turned his head in order to follow Bode as he strode around him._

_Eventually Bode spoke, "I don't even know why we bothered to take you here. I look at you now, and all I can think is 'waste of space'. Are you a waste of space, Draco?"_

_Draco felt like a five-year-old. At least, he was being treated as one. He shook his head, lips pressed so hard together that they formed a straight line, trying to keep from sneering at Bode._

_"Really? Look at you. What good can you be for us?"_

_Draco got even angrier, but he knew it didn't even really show on his face, since it was so smashed up, full of bruises. "I don't know, since you haven't even told me why I am here," he answered icily._

_Devlin nodded. "Oh yes. True, of course. You see, we're old friends of your father. Though I hear he is in Azkaban now. Am I right?"_

_Draco knew Bode was toying with him. The conviction of his father had been all over the Prophet, everyone had known. He didn't answer._

_Devlin didn't seem to mind. "Draco, I am afraid I can't stay, though. We'll continue this talk later."_

_He nodded his head once to Draco and Draco thought he was going to leave, but instead, he walked towards him. He could see the other two men shifting out of the corner of his eyes. Bode walked right up to him and then stepped on his foot, hard. Draco couldn't help but let out a strangled sound, his eyes screwing up. Bode just looked down at his foot on Draco's, almost vacantly._

_"Don't do anything stupid," he warned, voice low, then removed his foot and wordlessly opened the gate again, letting himself out. Even the two lackeys looked a bit startled by all of this._

_Draco let himself sink to the ground. Joey and Bryan stayed outside the gate._

Which is where Draco still was now, lying awkwardly on the ground again. He had pondered over Bode's actions, and he had decided that that psychopath had probably been trying to break a few bones in his foot, just to make sure he couldn't walk, couldn't escape. Draco hadn't moved his foot since, so he didn't know how much damage there was, but he could still feel it throbbing now, probably one hour later.

The lackeys had stayed outside the gate, always at least one watching him. He didn't know where the other one went sometimes, but he could hear other voices from time to time. From one, he was sure it was a woman's voice, softly whispering into the night, perhaps to herself, or to Devlin or one of the guys.

Draco didn't know what time it was, since there were no windows or clocks, but he knew it had to be night-time. He had been captured during midday, while shopping in Hogsmeade, so if he was correct in assuming that he had been here for some twelve or thirteen hours, it had to be night. Perhaps even later into the night if he had been out-cold for long. He didn't know.

He kept thinking about Harry, though. At first, because he realised that right now, Harry was his best chance of getting out of here, and then because he starkly remembered the whole reason they even called each other by first name now: Harry needed him. If he had been in this dungeon for at least thirteen hours, how much longer until Harry would start to feel ill again? How much longer until Harry would become too ill to even search for him? How much longer until-

No, they didn't even know that for sure. They had just assumed Harry would die if they weren't near each other. They didn't know.

Harry was really his only shred of hope and also the reason he wanted to get out as soon as possible. They weren't best buddies yet, they still had some ground to cover, but he couldn't let him die. He'd be a murderer, then! Well, some people thought he was one already. But he'd be knowingly letting Harry die, while he could do something about it. He'd be even more hated than he already was, even though he was kept in a prison, and so far had come up with no reliable escape routes, no plans, nothing. Except for the spell for the door. But he didn't have a wand.

But if Harry didn't come, if he couldn't find him, if Draco was under some Fidelius charm, then it could be his only way out.

Slowly, he stood up, his legs almost giving out twice, his head spinning after he had been lying down for so long.

Ever so slowly, he walked over to the gate.


	9. Chapter 17 and 18

**AN: Lots of internal monologue this chapter. Hope you don't mind. It just felt right. it is rather short again, i promise next chapter will be longer, i just felt like this was a good point to break it off. Sorry that I didn't include the super-angsty spectre stuff some of you were hoping for, but I really like to be realistic (heh) and I just felt that Harry would be able to control himself better than that. I promise that next chapter will be more action (yay)**  
**Anyway, here you go**

* * *

**Chapter 17**  
**The Manor**

Harry was sitting next to Hermione, happy now that they were finally doing something. It was taking all of his willpower not to jump up again, but he knew he couldn't make a difference until the Aurors had plotted Draco's location.

Well, that wasn't entirely true. They knew where Draco was. Harry cringed when he thought about his outburst again_, I know where he is_. And worse, after that he had fainted. He had always believed Draco was the drama queen, but recent circumstances led him to volte-face that.

Still, he had seen those walls, those gates, and he had known. He might've doubted he was actually seeing the cellars of Malfoy Manor, if it weren't for the fact that he could very well remember that room that Draco had been in. That room had been the last in the row of rooms that had held Luna, Dean, Griphook and Ollivander.

But even though he knew, he was having a hard time coming to terms with it. Questions were dancing around in his mind faster than Harry could follow them. Why was Draco being held in the cellar of his own house? Didn't Mrs. Malfoy still live there too? Did Draco not know where he was? How did these men get in there? What did these men want?

Yet, even though he couldn't fathom _why_ Draco was there, the most important thing right now, is that he _was_. He had told the Aurors as soon as Hermione had calmed him down a bit, and they had since been planning and whispering amongst themselves for Merlin-knew-how-long. He didn't know what the Aurors were doing exactly. If it were up to him, he would just barge in there, get Draco, and get back out. But that had always been Harry's plan of attack, in every situation: not having a plan. Having a plan didn't make any difference, because since when had any of their plans actually worked?

Sadly, the Aurors didn't share this Potter-famous frame of mind. In fact, they looked quite uncomfortable right now, as if even this was stretching it. Obviously, they were used to at least days of planning before attempting a daring rescue such as this. Maybe the thing that they appeared most anxious about, was the fact that they didn't know who they were up against. Harry was most anxious about that as well; he didn't know how dangerous these men were, how far they would go in order to get Draco to do what they wanted him to do.

And Harry had no idea what they wanted him to do. Selfishly, he just hoped these men's real price wasn't him. He would feel the guiltiest if it turned out that Draco was in this situation right now because of the Spectre. But even if he were, why would they keep Draco in his own home? Or maybe… maybe they were trying to lure Harry there, by keeping Draco in a place that they knew he would recognise. But then again, they didn't know Harry had seen through Draco's mind, had they? They didn't even know he _could_.

Keeping Draco in his own house… It just seemed so strange. So strange that Harry couldn't be exactly sure if what he had seen was the truth. Were these men burglars? If they were, they had a very peculiar way of robbing; keeping the co-owner of the house hostage.

On a different note, Harry was still having a hard time keeping control of his newly-acquired instincts. He knew his hair was probably quite white right now, and he could clearly see the white-blue lines of magic running along the wall, sidling in between the cracks and pouring out of the walls. It seemed this skill only appeared when he was agitated, yet he couldn't bring himself to calm down. He – a Spectre, a creature, Harry Potter – was worrying too much about his former nemesis. But that phrase – former nemesis – hadn't popped into his mind in a long time, while thinking about Draco. Instead, his mind supplied numerous dissimilar kinds of words than enemy when thinking about Draco. Perhaps friend, perhaps companion, perhaps something else. But it pained Harry to think those words, those 'something else' words. Even though Draco had agreed not to let Harry die, he hadn't exactly agreed to become his lover, and even becoming his friend seemed like a long stretch.

But Harry ached deep inside, the Spectre ached, for that companionship. It – _he_ wanted to see Draco daily, he wanted Draco to see _him_, to ground him, to talk to him. Harry felt this deep-seated twinge, yet another side of him said something totally different. Perhaps the side of him that was still stuck in old Harry's mind: yes, he thought Draco was absolutely gorgeous; the nearly-white hair, the aristocratic features, those cheekbones, but still, he had never expected to feel more than physical attraction towards him, and the fact that he did so freaked Harry out a little. Already he felt like he couldn't live without this boy – this man – and he had only been on slightly friendly term with him for about a week. That was awfully fast. He knew the Spectre-side of him was the culprit of that fact, but still… what if Draco decided he didn't want to anymore? What if Draco didn't like him at all (that was actually not a distinct possibility), what if those men murdered Draco?

Harry startled at his own thoughts, and shook his head. He looked around and saw Hermione looking at him, her brown eyes seemingly wanting to bury into his head. He clenched his jaw and turned back towards the Aurors. If the intention of the kidnappers was to murder Draco, they would've done so already. No, Draco served at least some alternative goal for them, something they needed him to do, wanted him to tell, or needed him to retrieve. But Harry just wished he knew what it was. No scratch that, he wanted Draco to not be there at all. But what was done is done, and now Harry – and Draco – had to deal with the consequences.

He had no idea if Draco was trying to escape, or if he was too hurt to do so. On the one hand, Harry hoped he wouldn't try to escape. If these men were serious, he would only end up in a worse situation than he already was. But these Aurors were taking a dreadfully long time. If they didn't hurry up soon, Harry would either be forced to go by himself again (and now that he knew where Draco was being held, he felt like he had a pretty good chance to actually get him), or Draco would try to escape, with all the consequences that would entail (hopefully that he got out, likely that he got killed trying).

Still, looking at dancing and twirling light blue lines of pure magic could only entertain a guy for so long. His eyes were burning with flickering orbs, when he closed his eyes he almost felt nauseous with how many coiling ribbons his retina was so over-eager to show him. He shook his head again and glanced once again at Hermione. She appeared to realise the invasive staring wasn't Harry's deal, so instead her eyes softened and she smiled a little smile at him. Harry smiled back, tight-lipped.

Sweet Hermione, so smart, so brilliant. Harry wanted to take his time to appreciate her, but he couldn't. He knew she meant well, but in his restless state - wanting to either jump around Slughorn's office or throw open that door and run away – he found her to be too… scrutinising. She made him very itchy. Really, Hermione should become an Auror, Harry thought. She fit right in-between those two men over there, wanting to know every detail, every ounce of knowledge before making decisions. Hermione was the one that always voted for making plans, she was always the brilliant one. Harry just tagged along. No, he and the Spectre knew very well that Auror-traineeship wasn't really an option anymore. The recent developments had engorged that belief, of course, but Harry had known that he didn't really want to become an Auror anymore for quite a while now, just as he had known for some time that he definitely preferred males. Yet, he hadn't told either fact to his friends. Did that make him a terrible friend?

"Harry, what's going on?" The object of his internal monologue asked. "Do they know something yet?"

Harry hadn't told her or Ron about Malfoy Manor yet. He knew Hermione's astute mind would figure it out in one second: male, Harry is reluctant about revealing it, is being kept in Malfoy Manor… even Harry would figure it out if he were Hermione. That didn't mean he didn't feel sad about it. The secrets just kept piling up, and he could see Hermione's hurt piling up in those intense eyes. He didn't want to… but he couldn't tell her. Who knew, maybe she already knew. Or suspected. That sounded selfish, but it that were the case, at least Harry wouldn't be the one to break the news.

He didn't blame Hermione for being hurt by his secrecy. It hurt him too. It hurt Ron too, in all probability. After all, Ron's lifestyle was practically being one happy family, and after all that they'd been through, Hermione and Harry were included in that family. Which made Harry very happy, and very ashamed of his clandestineness. But he didn't want to tell them. Someday he'd have to, probably sooner than later.

Still, it was Draco's decision too. Harry couldn't just barge around telling everyone. Draco had a say too. A rather big say, actually, being 50 percent of their duo. If they even were a duo. They felt very separated, in any case, and not just by distance. But thinking that made Harry just feel all the more driven to get to know that blond-haired young man, which made him even more heated that Draco wasn't here right now, which brought him back full-cycle. Sitting in Slughorn's office, staring at two Aurors and being angry at the world.

"Yes, I told them the location," he told Hermione truthfully. "I saw it before I… well, you were there."

"I certainly was," she said.

Ron looked over – probably hearing Hermione's voice - and removed himself from the window, where he had been staring from for the last half hour, and instead settled on the edge of Slughorn's desk, facing Hermione and Harry, close enough so that they could talk in private.

"And you won't tell us where he is?" Hermione asked.

Harry started a little, the 'he' in the sentence sounding so foreign when in relation to Harry's… well, his relationship. Even so, it sounded right and a part of Harry was delighted that they finally knew the truth.

"Well," he said promptly, but didn't continue, not sure what to say or how to explain.

Ron took that as his cue. "I think you should tell us mate. It won't make much of a difference. As soon as those two knuckleheads have it figured out-" he pointed over his shoulder at the Aurors, "-we will know anyways, because you know we will come with you to get him."

Harry looked at the Aurors who were looking somewhat offended (Ron didn't exactly talk quietly), then focussed on Ron again. He nodded, feeling resigned.

Ron sat back, crossing his arms and looking quite content with himself. "Let's hear it then," he said.

"What?" Harry said. "No, I didn't mean now already…"

Ron deflated. "Why?"

"Well, I don't think I am the only one fit to make that decision," Harry answered, repeating his earlier thoughts. "Er, _he_ gets a say too."

Ron actually looked a bit indignant now. Harry didn't even dare to look at Hermione. "But what does it matter if we'll see him anyway?! I don't understand you Harry."

And that was okay with Harry, because he didn't understand himself either. He just couldn't give himself that final push to just tell them. He wasn't sure what he was afraid of. Of their reactions, of Draco's reaction, or if he was just afraid of the truth. _Draco Malfoy is my soul mate, if he doesn't practically live beside me, I die_. Even in his mind it sounded stupid.

That thought brought other matters to his mind, though. The insistent nausea that had been building in his gut for the last two hours now. The headache that had been growing behind his eyes. The ache in his bones. He'd been trying not to think about it, but Ron had unknowingly aided in getting it to the forefront of Harry's mind again.

If the Aurors didn't hurry, he would be too ill by the time they would be ready to get Draco out. 

* * *

Draco stood by the gate, glaring at Bryan who was sitting on the chair at the other side of the iron bars. _Coward_, Draco thought derisively. It wasn't like he was a real danger. Since he had stood up, his foot that the Bode guy had stomped on had hurt like hell and he was quite sure there was a broken bone in there somewhere.

Still, he felt something else. A little sliver of something in his chest. Was it hope? Draco almost didn't dare to hope, but the fact was that he had caught the ending of a string of words that the oaf Bryan had muttered to open the gate to give him a plate of food, fifteen minutes ago. It wasn't much, but Draco had caught the word _porta_. He knew it meant 'gate', the only problem was that there was at least one word in front of that one. And he hadn't caught that/those words.

But chance of getting out of this hell had spurred him to stand up and lay his hand the lock, and think with all his might _porta, porta_. Of course, nothing had happened. He couldn't do wandless magic, wasn't great at wordless magic either. But he didn't want to say it out loud, in fear of Bryan hearing him – he was sitting way too close – and then Bode changing the password. Instead, Draco stared at Bryan as if he was the only thing that gave him life, his hand seemingly only inattentively left on the lock, as a sort of bar to hold him up.

Bryan was well-trained though, and just stared back. Eventually Draco gave up and sank back down on the floor in the middle of the room. He picked up a small stone from the floor and wrote – very small and very illegible, not like him at all – _porta_ on the grey, stone ground of his room.

Then instead of his constant mantra of _porta_, his tired mind slipped into a chant of _Harry_, interspersed with _Potter_. After a few minutes he startled out of his reverie, shocked with himself and his dependency.

He had never relied on people, he had always been the one people were relying on, yet in this hopeless situation, depending on someone else came as easily to him as breathing. Which made Draco feel very, very angry with himself and very afraid. How low had he gone to even think that. How hopeless was this situation right now that he would even consider banking his life on someone else.

He looked at his broken foot and had to fight the urge not to yell. 

* * *

Back at Hogwarts, Harry Potter doubled over in pain.

**Chapter 18 coming soon**


End file.
